


Spoonful of Sugar

by CryingKilljoy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BoyxBoy, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryingKilljoy/pseuds/CryingKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras absolutely despises Grantaire. That's a fact Grantaire can live with, however -- or, at least, he could. Now, however, he's discovered these neat things called painkillers, and for some deluded reason, he thinks he can use them for emotional pain. And the worst part is...they're working, and Grantaire can only want more and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. why they gotta play me like this

**Grantaire's POV**

For the slightest of moments, there is nothing in the apartment but the dreams I once held in childhood, the unattainable wishes produced by a fledgling mind unaware of how the world actually functioned and how the world would be perfectly content with throwing me onto its doorstep if I did so much as speak out of turn, the whims that dissolved once I entered into adulthood and into college to instead opt for a much more sinister route. These dreams were dreams of a future where I could be whatever I wanted to be, where I could live freely in the body that was given to me so that I could love it, where I could shape the world to whatever I wanted it to look like. Although I had no premonition that happiness would be an occasional privilege, happiness is included in the list, too. Finally, it has returned, and I'm not even rushing to maintain the feeling, because a simple taste of it is enough.

Certainly, there could be more of those simple tastes, and maybe they wouldn't be so simple or just tastes after a while if I played my cards right, so this is the way to go, right where I am. This is also the reason why I am, in that brief moment, floating on cloud 9 and defying everything science has taught me about the atmosphere and gravity, all brought about by one man reclining beside me.

He's not even touching me, not even looking at me, just at feet imprisoned by perfectly white socks wound tightly around his ankles and branding their texture into his skin as we sit here together, but that's okay, because his mere presence is a consolation to me, a reminder of what I once dreamed of. This man, whom I know by the name of Enjolras, can do more to me than years of self-abuse and the years of therapy that proceeded afterwards in a frail attempt to correct it, and he’s just a _human._

I am completely cognizant that humans hold the capacity to shape other humans’ lives, and greatly so. We were, in fact, designed for being social and interacting with others of our kind in order to make it in this rough world, and though it can fuck us just as equally as it can benefit us, those circumstances have brought me to enjoy this moment near the love of my life (and has also brought me to months upon months of ceaseless pining).

To love Enjolras is to love yourself. He has this certain way of making you emanate the same joy that he emanates, like he’s the cook in the kitchen of your heart, always smiling and always stirring up a mix of sunshine and acceptance, and I know it sounds corny and absolutely cliché, but if one were to ever meet him with even a single doubt about his contagiously pleasant demeanor, they would be proven wrong in a matter of seconds and would leave the conversation with a portion of their soul regrown. To put it another way, Enjolras is like medical marijuana for the spirit, offering both regeneration and a dreamy escape from the horrors of the world.

I have been nothing less than lascivious with this man, this angel whose name even Apollo would praise, but my efforts are unfortunately denied, and always have been, ever since day one when we met through a mutual friend at a party and also when I had already confirmed that I was in love with this godly being, and I was determined to make my move before. That’s why, however desperate it sounds, I am determined to savor this time spent alone with my dearest golden boy before we return to our incessant arguing.

Despite the fact that Enjolras and I always seem to be at each other’s throats with knives that vary in power based on the intensity of the debate, our friends are utterly convinced that we are in love with each other. They’re correct on one side, but I have found that my obsession with an angel will always be nothing but unrequited, and anyone can decipher that the heat dwelling in Enjolras’ eyes when we fight is genuine, whereas a sliver of a tear is always present in my own eyes, a sliver indicative of the fact that I hate all of this fighting, but Enjolras frankly can’t have enough of it, even if he’s upset that I’m the way that I am, that my personality has to be insolent enough to spark the frequent altercations. I know that a lack of fighting would have no influence on whether or not he would like me any more than he does now (or doesn’t, depending on how you view it). He doesn’t give a shit about me; he never has, and he never will, so I stick my pining, and I stick to my observation, and I stick to enjoying the closest thing I’ve ever gotten to reciprocation.

I can live with a hatred towards me, or I can at least handle it well enough, because through the continuous arguments, Enjolras is still as stunning as he’s ever been, and you can’t really blame me for drinking him in like I’m the alcoholic I used to be. I’m fine with watching him as he moves about his day, as he settles into a persona of confidence, a confidence I could only dream of. The way he commands the room is worthy of note as well, and I enjoy watching that more than anything.

Perhaps it’s rude of me to stare, but Enjolras and I both know that politeness has never been my forte, and it’s not like he’s noticed yet that my shards of sapphire are digging into him as heavily as they really are, as he’s otherwise occupied by performing a routine of doing the same ritual to his socks. To any other person, this would seem boring as hell, but love makes you do terrible things disguised in nectar. Love isn’t pretty, but it is necessary.

However, Enjolras doesn’t love me at all (he despises me, actually), so he must be bored out of his mind, but our conversation trailed out a while ago, and he can predict that if he attempted to light a conversation back up, it would most likely end in the same arguing to which we’re so well accustomed. But I have other ideas, because it appears that I live to nettle him.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask, the faintest hint of a smile snipping the corner of my mouth with a sarcastic tinge.

A few seconds are required before Enjolras can snap out of his haze, and when he does, he looks thoroughly confused, almost as if he didn’t hear my question, typical of his authoritative personality. He never considers what I say, because most of the time it’s either jargon or an effort to annoy him, both of which are irrelevant to his frequent talks of politics.

On the contrary, he did hear me, and fires back with a comment. “We’ve been sitting here for an hour, and all you’ve done is stare at me.”

Ah, so he’s caught on. I hope he won’t ask me to explain why I’ve been ogling him for the past sixty minutes, because the two reasons are somewhat embarrassing, although I’m not too concerned with what I say to Enjolras, as he can always assume that it’s nothing important, and always something akin to my flagrant personality. Still, I’m not too keen on telling him that his beauty was much more captivating than it should be, especially because I might’ve seen some paperwork for a restraining order strewn about his kitchen table, and I don’t want to push it that far.

“You could’ve told me to stop,” I claim, playing innocent as usual, because I can’t deal with another burden of loathing resting upon my already weak back. “And it’s not my fault you’re too scared to talk to me.  
Enjolras turns to me suddenly, a harshness like no other smoldering in his usually iridescent irises. “You know, Grantaire, that’s probably because what you have to say is complete and utter bullshit, and you don’t give a fuck about the topic at hand, ever.”

The wind released to aid Enjolras in speaking is also knocked out of _me_ at an equal proportion, just much more forcefully and quickly, like the fist of those treacherous words bludgeoned me in my abdomen like a battering ram hell bent on opening the doors to my stomach and releasing a steady stream of vomit onto Enjolras’ hardwood floors, though after that comment, it’s not like I care much about what happens to him. I’d be ecstatic to know that I had a part in it.

I need to calm down. I don’t actually hate Enjolras. When people verbally attack me with the truth, it unhooks the rope holding my emotions to their place, and they begin to swing around wildly, a pendulum ready to smack me into a different universe. Contrarily, my dreary existence would probably be bleached lighter in a different universe, because in a different universe, there wouldn’t be Enjolras prepping another attack against me when I’ve had enough throughout the months in which I’ve known him, in which I’ve fallen for him, in which every time he speaks I sense a dagger shredding through the organs vital to life, the organs prepared to keep me in this underworld of an existence, trying to persuade me into thinking that life _is_ worth living without Enjolras, when that’s just a load of bullshit. Apparently I’m all too familiar with bullshit, though, because that’s what Enjolras says my speaking is, and all of my friends regard him as the sensible one, so it must be true, no matter how cruel it is.

Regulating my breathing, I glance back at Enjolras in the hopes that he’s changed his mind about what he said, but he has not. A malicious gleam is all too prominent in his eyes, a stone all too powerful in his heart. He means what he said, and he’s not reneging on his words unless I change, but — take it from a former alcoholic — changing is arduous as fuck.

It’s not that I wouldn’t be completely willing to accommodate Enjolras, because I most definitely would — that’s what devotion does to the human system. It’s just that changing is artificial from the way I see it right now, and though that’s probably just my cynicism at work, I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, because then Enjolras will get confused and detest me more than he does now, absolutely oblivious to the fact that my self-tailoring would be for him, so I’m stuck here with the ragged remains of the personality no one wants, and that’s all I get. I can’t have Enjolras, and I can’t have happiness, and I can’t have the natural air of welcome that he does. Pessimism is just a central part of who I am, and unfortunately Enjolras scorns me for it, and is doing so this very instant.

Enjolras searches frantically for his words, so embittered by my intolerable nature that even his articulation has fallen out the window to escape the terror that has become of my friend. “Y-you don’t give your heart to anything!” he shrieks, catapulting his hands into the air in frustration.

“Well, Enjolras, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been giving my heart to _you_.”

That was most definitely the wrong thing to say, but it’s out of my mouth now, and I can’t do a thing about it. Besides, Enjolras has already established that we’re letting every opinion loose tonight, each word a pride of lions hungry for the kill, and it’s only fair that I offer my rebuttal in accordance with his.

A fraction of Enjolras’ acrimony towards me vaporizes and flees, replaced only by sympathy who seeks to help, though this situation is far beyond fixing. Panic pushes itself into the conversation as well, prompting Enjolras to shriek, “Grantaire—”

Narrowing a beautiful pair of crystal eyes partially slicked by the genesis of a thunder storm, a simple question is discharged from my lips whose flavor is nothing but overwhelmed by the knowledge that I am in love with someone who rejects even my embrace, but that I am in love nevertheless. “Why are you playing my heartstrings like this, Enjolras?”

And, being the callous person that he is, with walls upon walls to protect him from this sort of thing, to protect himself from _me_ , he offers a reply as insensitive as he is. “‘Cause my hands are too small for guitar strings.”

I lean into the angel I once knew, spite gripping my tongue, to tell him that he is no longer that angel. “You’re the fucking devil, Enjolras,” I mutter as I stand up to retrieve my coat and get the hell out of here, because quite frankly I can’t remain in this nest of wolves, wolves that have all converged into one person and packed one hell of a punch, and I can’t withstand that punch, nor the tears that clog my throat and my eyes and my aching heart. All I know is that it’s time to leave, and Enjolras doesn’t even try to stop me.

Honestly, what did I expect?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've never written a fic where the protagonist is already in love but here we go it's a new adventure
> 
> hi I'm Dakota (he/they) and this is gonna be sad as fUCK
> 
> also you can stop by and find me at @barricaderats on tumblr if you want
> 
> ~Dicknoodle


	2. bad ideas galore

**Grantaire's POV**

Look, I can endure an argument. Most other people can, too. I’m not some over-sensitive diva who only accepts things if they go their way. That’s not me at all. In fact, more often than not, I’m the one who has to settle for less than even a compromise, giving myself to whatever it is that the world wants for me and for those around me. I’m not so accustomed to the highlife of moral maintenance, and that’s something I can live with.

But what I can’t live with is Enjolras firing out these _insults_ at me like he never cared for me in the first place, and that may be true, but only to some extent. After all, he was the one who decided to invite me to his apartment for some reason (and that reason is still unknown, but I don’t suppose it was to bicker with me like drunken fools). We’re _friends_ , and he would agree to that just as much as I would, though I’m not sure why. Nevertheless, friends are bound to certain duties, duties that are kind in nature, duties that are meant to preserve friendship and preserve the happiness of both parties in the relation. But people are people, and they’re disposed towards breaking a few rules here and there, disposed towards slipping outside of what a faithful friend should be. Arguments can be healthy sometimes, but not when they occur so frequently that seventy-five percent of your exchanges with someone is meant to scorn them, like Enjolras and me.

And for some fucking reason (it seems I have no idea what’s going on in my life anymore), Enjolras decided that today was the day that we would fight even more than usual, as if that’s possible to achieve. Yet, Enjolras is a determined man, filled with motivation, a man who never ceases to surprise me with accomplishments I never predicted could be accomplished, so it’s only his nature to argue above the terrain at which I thought arguing fell short. He’s the gift that keeps on giving, no matter if his gifts are pleasant or not — in this case, they were not.

And that’s how I’m finding myself on the street in the middle of March, thrown from Enjolras’ apartment in a move that other people would peg to me, when, in reality, it was Enjolras’ acerbity that drugged me up with the display of my primal instincts, and soon enough I just had to run, because I was definitely not ready to take on the savage beast I saw before me.

My coat is as thin as my patience with my former friend, so both physical and mental chills work their way around me, like an icy hug, because — believe it or not — I am in need of a consolation, now more than ever, so a hug would be nice if it weren’t from something as cold as the March air. My friends wouldn’t expect this of me, but I have feelings, just like them, and though I hide those ghastly emotions with casual self-deprecation formatted to extract a laugh or two, they’re still present and haunting, and they’ve just now emerged fully in order to bite me in the ass for being so fucking foolish as to provoke someone who was due to explode at any second. Enjolras is a bomb, and I ran out of time. He shattered everything I thought I knew, but still I must face him at meetings with my other friends, friends who aren’t nearly as spiteful towards me as he is, and I will be forced to remember how he shouted at me, how he told me subtlety and with words to leave and ever come back, but I have to come back, as is mandatory by law of the people who still care about us and who still care about us mending our broken friendship, though mending broken china is near impossible. We were fragile from the start, and I guess we were just handled improperly. That’s that. I’m done with any future protests my friends may put up, and I’m done with Enjolras.

I thought so much hate was incapable of anyone, let alone Enjolras, but, as I said, he just keeps on surprising me with how much he can achieve. One day probably not too far in the future, once I say something stupid like I always do, I’ll realize that he can up his game of acrimony even more, and that theory will be tested on me. For now, I think he’s focusing on his recovery, because I am admittedly a handful — an insolent, childish handful, attempted to be clutched in those small palms Enjolras possesses, and if I truly love him, then I should be glad I left him alone. It’s the least I can do.

Not to mention that I dropped the news that I’m fucking in love with him, which is always something strenuous to digest, even if we didn’t just argue only moments before. I mean, yeah, it’s obvious that I’ve been fawning over him for the past few months, with every wink and every smirk and every sigh when I know that he’ll never reciprocate my feelings. It would be clear as day to a fucking stranger, too, but it’s never seemed as clear to Enjolras. He’s always wrapped up with something else, like improving the world (which is a fair cause, and shouldn’t be interrupted by my mindless chatter; I’m actually quite proud of him for his ambitions), and whenever he gives me the time of day, it’s to scold me for being the petulant child I know I am, I know I always will be. He doesn’t have time to notice anything about me, besides the wild mess of dark curls he tells me to trim, or how my clothes are always splattered by some sort of art device, or my legs dangling off of chairs I shouldn’t touch, nothing that defines me, nothing that would appeal to anyone. It sure as hell has never appealed to Enjolras, and now nothing ever will, now that I’ve fucked shit up between us.

The fact that Enjolras was so calm during the debate irks me, too. Usually, he unleashes his full artillery of anger upon me, shouting and cursing and saying whatever he can so that I cower away from him (which I never do, both because I never want to be alienated from Enjolras more so than I already am, and because I’m stronger than he thinks I could ever be, if he’s unaware just how much of a stubborn asshole I come across as), and usually I can withstand it. But this time was different. He did not shout, nor curse, nor insult me with diluted claims. He spoke directly, with no apprehension, with no fear, with no guilt. He wasn’t confident, no. He was just numb, so fed up with me that the stress subdued itself from his mindset, like a heat so strong that it chills to cold. With the mixture of Enjolras’ overly collected nature, and me informing him that I’m head over heels mad for him when I’ve never believed in anything else, the situation will forever be a prominent one in my memory, and may be known as the last time anything was ever somewhat okay between us.

All I want is a reprieve, from all of it. I don’t know how I’ll obtain it, or how long it’ll last, but I need it like plants need sunlight, like I need _Enjolras_ in my pathetic little life. My reprieve will only be temporary, but temporary is all I ask. I’m used to the scanty amounts, the scraps, and the scraps have never looked as delicious as they do now. But there are no scraps this time, because why would I deserve them? I am reduced to nothing, not even worthy of the leftovers, and I will receive nothing.

Defeated, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket in an action that will hopefully regain some of my dominance, because I need to feel powerful in this moment of the complete opposite, but unfortunately I am left bare. _Fortunately_ , however, I stumble across something lurking within the cushioned pockets, something given to me a few days ago by my med student friend named Joly for my incessant migraines, a product of living inside of this conflicted inferno for twenty dreadfully slow years.

Painkillers, just what I need for the dreary expanse that is living in this torture device of a body. Checking the other pocket, I quickly confirm that these painkillers are the only things in my jacket, and I need an occupation of some sort, so I opt to utilize them in some shape.

Painkillers are meant to treat the physical effects of being fucking human, as we all are, and that’s only under certain circumstances — as in, when you’re _actually_ in physical pain. However, since mental tragedies are often somatized into physical results, what could a pill or two hurt, yeah? And even if I’m not in physical pain, and have no _risk_ of being in physical pain, what an artistic thing it is to use painkillers on my poor emotional health. It’s somewhat of an abstract solution, and maybe the trusty placebo effect will join in on the action, too. I need all the help available for this horrid state in which I’m dwelling and in which I will be dwelling for a while, as the wounds Enjolras dragged into my skin are quickly fading to scars, albeit no less painful and no less reminiscent of that heated altercation of only a couple minutes prior to where I am now (though you can’t really expect me to keep track of time when everything’s firing off at once inside my mind, which is why the painkillers seem like such a smart tactic to use right now), and at least this time, those scars were not inflicted by me, and while it would be such a treat to tack the blame onto the person who is the rightful convict, there’s still a portion of me, a portion holding on by the skimpiest of threads, who retains just as much vigor as Enjolras does, who is _vouching_ for Enjolras, who still loves Enjolras with every fiber of its deteriorating presence, however limited, and that’s the portion that tells me one painkiller is enough for now.

I can figure this out on my own, with only a bit of help from drugs, because I know what addiction feels like, how it thrashes you from every plain of security and leaves you for dead, and I’m not returning to that. No, I’ll simply work things out in a natural way, with a bit of cheating taped onto the end. And even though this argument is one of the worst ones I’ve ever experienced with Enjolras, I have a sprinkle of unfounded faith that I can get through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: everything is just so b a d,,,,,,,ohmygodwe'realldead
> 
> but honestly i fucked shit up so early in the story like ??? I should let my readers live for once but I just really like sad stories
> 
> ~Da[n]k[meme]ota


	3. the agony continues

**Enjolras' POV**

Never in my life have I felt as bad as I do now. I really _shouldn’t_ feel bad, as Grantaire is the most insolent, disrespectful, perverted person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting, and yet here I am, sitting on my couch with no sight of movement for the past fifteen minutes, and all I want to do is apologize to that messy devil of a man, but Grantaire is long gone, and will probably be long gone for the rest of my life, all because I couldn’t keep my shit in my head where it belongs. No, I just _had_ to go and spew it onto someone I know cares for me, despite all of the times he nettles me with something so unimportant that it hurts, but I don’t think anything can hurt more than knowing that I just ruined a friendship I thought I could fix some way or another, a friendship I thought had potential for being something greater than debates when we’re supposed to be working on improving the world, but maybe our friendship is the thing that needs the most improvement, though that friendship has disintegrated in an instant because my anger finally boiled up to the point where it was uncontainable, and it all poured out like Mount Vesuvius onto the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum below. That goddamn volcano destroyed thousands of lives, and I basically did the same, as Grantaire, being such a passionate artist, surely has many more layers to him than a thousand, and I plowed through them all by saying some stupid shit that I could’ve kept to myself, even if I meant it all wholeheartedly, and now I’m debating whether or not I even meant it at all.

I should be stronger than this, right? I, the fearless leader whom all my friends revere, the strategist with several tricks up his sleeve just in case his other plans don’t work out when they’re as stable as they come, the loyal friend who has been nothing less than a douchebag to someone who needed his friendship most of all, should be able to withstand this. I was not the one being singled out during this altercation. I, as far as I know, don’t possess any qualities that Grantaire would be overly eager to point out in future arguments. He’s light-hearted when he argues, because most of the time our arguments are based out of his sarcastic comments and why they’re irrelevant, why _he’s_ irrelevant, nothing to do with me. I should not be ashamed of what transpired in our debate, as it was all about Grantaire’s petulance and Grantaire’s stubbornness and Grantaire’s unwillingness to let me live a life where he is not such a prominent concern, where I do not worry about him every time I see him because he looks like death, where I do not wonder about what he’s been eating or, more accurately, what he hasn’t been eating, where I do not feel the urge to sort through his house like a rogue police officer from the World War Two era in search of something to convict him of being some sort of drug addict, because how else would he look so battered up? Grantaire has become important to me, even if he can’t see it and even if he would deny it, as apparently he loves me, and apparently he’s certain that his love for me will forever be unrequited, and apparently I’m such a fucking idiot to let this occur. I’ve lost a friend tonight, and I don’t know how to get him back.

I’m sure that part of the problem is the fact that Grantaire is sure that I am beyond angry with him, that I would never want to see him again when, in reality, it is quite the opposite pole, so if I could just snag an opportunity to discuss what transpired with him, then some of our miscommunications may be soothed, and there would be less of an issue to work with. But it’s not like Grantaire wants to see me again, because even if the debate was not _about_ me, it was my fault that it happened, and he’s paid the price for my stupidity.

Flawless, perfect, sweet Enjolras has made an irreparable mistake, and now I’m here on the couch, alone and without the person to which I owe an apology, just so fucking numb that pain of two kinds may be on their way again, and I have no fucking idea what to do now that I’ve ruined everything Grantaire spent months trying to build.

He persevered through every time I told him that he was a distraction, through every time I yelled at him for being so rowdy, through every time my body language and expressions assured him that we would be nothing more than enemies, but I’ve done too much damage now. I never fully realized how strong Grantaire is until this moment, this moment that’s too unfortunate to cherish, because I could go a lifetime without knowing that Grantaire has the mental strength of what a giant would retain in physical strength, just as long as he wouldn’t be hurt by my imbecilic mistakes, imbecilic mistakes that I cannot fix no matter how hard I try, and all I want to do is sob, but I can’t, because I’m fucking numb beyond belief, yet everything hurts all over, but then again nothing hurts in any place, and it’s all just a confusing mess with which I don’t want to deal, but all of the sudden the door is swinging open to reveal my roommate Combeferre, and he’ll of course ask why I’m sitting on the couch, lifeless, when my normal self would be cramming for college studies. I’ve always admired his perceptiveness, but now it’s just a curse. Even if I could hide my distress for the time being so that Combeferre would not detect it, it would always arise later when I am discharged from my numbness and finally realize that tears are only natural but tears still burn nevertheless.

Combeferre is a natural problem solver. That’s why he’s earning top marks, why he won valedictorian by a long shot, why he’s taking so many extra classes with ease. His IQ is phenomenal (not that mine isn’t, although I’m not doing too well with my problem solving right now), so Combeferre could aid me if I would just open up. I’m not sure how difficult that would be, but it’s worth a shot anyway. Besides, even if he’s at a loss for a plan, he’s still good friends with Grantaire, and he could convince Grantaire to talk to me again. If he can’t achieve that by willingness, then he can just push us together randomly, lock us in a closet, and only release us when we’ve achieved a mutual understanding and partnership, hopefully better than what our relations looked like from the time since Grantaire and I met. It’s a privilege to have a friend like Combeferre, and he’s here to save me from the mess I so idiotically made.

I have never been one for physical affection or displaying my emotions for the world to see — as my businessman father claims that doing so paves the road to hell, though listening to my father has never brought me anywhere besides the den of immoral manipulation — but all I can do is fling myself into Combeferre’s arms to partially console myself after ruining the relationship in which I was invested fixing, the relationship I could not fix, the relationship I destroyed. This is the only movement I have shoved out of my limbs in the past twenty minutes, and I can’t say I like how it feels on my bones, although it does remove a portion of the numbness I’ve been experiencing, at least the physical component of it.

Combeferre’s emotional range is unlike mine at the moment, registered on complete and utter confusion, because, as I said, I’m not one to display my emotions, and not one to fling myself into people’s arms with the hope that they can provide me with some suitable advice after I just trashed my fucking life. Combeferre glances down at me from where I’m huddled into his chest, only spying the top of my blonde curls due to our height difference, and he sews his brows together, perplexed beyond compare. “Enj, are you okay?” he draws out, still unsure of my motives, as if I would deceive my best friend.

“What the hell do you think?” I snip, so reminiscent of how I treated Grantaire before he promptly left and decided he wouldn’t be so well disposed towards returning ever again, and I would expeditiously revise my tone if it weren’t for the fact that the words have already jumped from my mouth and reminded me of exactly the way I made my grand mistake earlier tonight.

“Okay, so you’re riled up.” Combeferre continues to showcase an array of confused expressions, not really sure what to make of the situation, and honestly neither do I. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

Not really. I’d rather not bring back more memories of what I did to someone I only wanted to fix. That was really my intention, no matter how much I convoluted it by the time Grantaire and I were finished bickering, but that’s what bickering does for you — it redirects the route towards which you want things to go. I was hoping that I could convince Grantaire that being so stubborn will get him nowhere beyond the business field, but his type of stubbornness is too much for the business field, too. However, that’s not how things sounded to Grantaire or to anyone who could’ve listened in, and that’s where I went wrong. I’m frustrated with myself beyond compare, and frustrated further by the knowledge that I can’t do a single thing about it. I can’t shove those words back down my throat, and I can’t elucidate what I meant by them if Grantaire won’t talk to me. But I realize that Combeferre’s help is the only way I could get close to solving things between us, so it’s my duty to both me and Grantaire to seek his assistance.

“I had another fight with Grantaire.”

Combeferre huffs out a laugh, briefly neglecting the notion that I’m a fucking mess in his arms about what I have to tell him, and he composes himself again to properly expel the logic I’ve always admired. “All you do is fight with Grantaire. What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah, it’s true that we’re always screeching like an old married couple” — Combeferre invites the subtlest flavor of a smirk to his lips, but once he sees that I noticed it, it evaporates as quickly as it settled — “but I really have his best interest in mind, right?”

“Um, yeah?” Combeferre is trying his best, which I really appreciate, but I can decipher that he’s well beyond discomfort, judging from the way he’s shifting within our embrace like all he wants to do is escape — after all, I’m not usually like this. “So, again, what’s the big deal?”

“Whenever we fight, Grantaire always looks like he’ll be fine, like he _is_ fine, even exposed to the battlefield that is me shouting at me like a barbarian, but not this time.” I shake my head, shoveling the dirt of Combeferre’s tee over me as a sort of protection, as a comfort. “This time, he looked like what I said seriously affected him. The content of my speech was mostly the same as always (telling him he’s too stubborn for his own good, that he doesn’t give a shit about anything), but there must’ve been something about _me_ that put him off. Grantaire isn’t usually like this, and I’m just so fucking upset, because I wanted to help him, but all I did was wreck things worse than they already were in the first place.”

Combeferre hesitates for a second, whirring through the motions of his problem solving skills, before pulling away from the embrace and leading me over to the kitchen table so we can discuss things like the proper adults we pretend to be. He snags a couple pulses of oxygen from the surrounding environment, then begins without really knowing what he’s doing, but he’s at least trying, and I’m thankful for that, beyond words. “So why, exactly, are you worried? That sounds insensitive of me to say, but I’m trying to pinpoint the explicit origin of your stress so we can devise a plan to conquer it.”

Good old logical Combeferre. It’s in times like these that I cherish our friendship, a friendship I _didn’t_ smash like I smashed the one between Grantaire and me, the one I’m hoping to fix by employing my faithful roommate. I assumed this would be easy, because Combeferre is adept at resolving everything until it seems as though nothing happened in the first place, but I didn’t realize the process would require so much effort from me, or that it would be so arduous to supply it.

“I really don’t know,” I sigh, lacing my fingers around each other and pulling away, a habit of nervousness I’ve never witnessed before in myself, not this steady mind I call my home. “Everything about the exchange was off, and everything was moving too quickly. I guess that’s why I feel so sorry about what I did, because I definitely wasn’t in my right mind, now that I reflect on it. What I want most of all is to return to where I was in our relationship, and from there I can help him further, but as for now I’ve sunken below the bare minimum, and all I ask is the strength demanded to hoist myself back up to that with Grantaire.”

Combeferre nods, pensive, mulling everything over. I know it’s a lot to swallow, primarily because I can’t even understand the situation myself, and I was the one in it, and I’m doing a rather shitty job of explaining what the hell happened to put me on edge like this, because certainly it’s nothing Combeferre has ever seen in me before, and it’s a struggle to accommodate my sudden mood swing.

The room is silent for the time in which Combeferre ponders the matter, and though I’m extremely grateful for my roommate’s presence, the lack of a solution is starting to creep its way back into my mindset, more so than before, and all I want is for Combeferre to just speak again, which he does after a few more seconds of dreadful extension.

“If you’re so worried about Grantaire not wanting to talk to you after that, which is understandable” ­— I shoot him a virulent glare as if to tell him he’s not helping by saying that — “no offense, then I can call Grantaire into the Corinth for a ‘private meeting’, and you can ‘unexpectedly’ emerge, and I’ll probably leave you two alone like the fantastic friend I am, and hopefully by the end you’ll be back to the bickering old married couple you once were.”

That sounds like the kind of plan dreamed up by the best friend who has been praying for years that his two other friends would finally hook up after a long while of pining, which may or may not be my situation with Grantaire, but it’s the best thing I’ve got, and I can decrypt that I’ve worn Combeferre out enough with my drama, so I don’t want to pressure him further, not after he’s done so much for me together.

“Can we do that tomorrow? I don’t want to wait too long, or else my conscience will kill me before I can make up with Grantaire.”

“And hopefully make _out_ with Grantaire,” I faintly hear Combeferre mutter, but I pretend that I don’t hear it for my own safety, of course.

Rising from the table, I allow myself the deepest of breaths to try and calm down my jittery system, and I promptly thank Combeferre for all of his hard work, which he acknowledges with a tiny smile and a nod just as minute.

“I think I’m going to bed,” I announce, stretching my tense muscles. “I’ve had a _long_ day, and I’m sure tomorrow won’t be any less adventurous.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Combeferre laughs, watching in amusement as I stumble down the hall to my sweet, sweet bedroom.

I trust sleep to solve _some_ of my problems, at least.

~~~~~

****A/N: Combeferre is the realest okay fight me** **

****ugh when will they just make up already omg I'm the writer but this is hurting me so much** **

****this is my third chapter tonight like....I started this not that long ago today and I already have like 7k words** **

****~Dickota** **


	4. walk into the club like whaddup I'm dead inside

****Jehan's POV** **

There’s nothing I love more than untainted expression. Expression can broadcast itself in many different forms, whether it be in visual art or in writing or in films or sometimes verbally spoken words, and the fact that it is capable of being transmitted in a variety of ways is part of the reason why expression is so appealing to me, and why I’ve snatched some for myself.

My forte is poetry, the school unit dreaded by students and praised by adults for being so influential and enlightening once they discover the well-known writers, but I’m not very well known. In fact, the only time I receive my share of the limelight is on open mic nights at the Musain, a café just down the road from where Grantaire and I share an apartment, but all of the patrons seem to enjoy my work, even if they weren’t too fond of poetry before, and I find immense amounts of joy from that. It’s mundane, but it’s what I have and what I cherish, and I love those nights.

Tonight is one of them, so I’m making my way down the street from a previous excursion at the book store to idly dream of possessing more leaflets of fantasy than I need, a poem scrawled on a scanty piece of notebook paper clutched firmly within my fingers to protect it against the raging wind of March.

It’s a poem I’m most proud of, selected from the many other poems I write in a week, and I’m sure the Musain will like it as much as I do. I spent more time on it than I usually spend on poems, which is already a lot, as I have to inject every ounce of my humanly passion into these words, so I’m hoping that my hard work will pay off in the end. Sometimes the bartender, the charming Cosette Fauchelevent, rewards me for my work with a lemonade on the house, becoming a portion of the highlights of the night.

I think it’s safe to say that the patrons of the Musain love me, the poet Jean Prouvaire who sojourns here so often with poetry to share, and beyond my own circle of friends I have found goodness in those who visit the café both for beverages and to stay a little longer to hear my writing, which is always appreciated so much that I cannot employ words to convey my feelings.

The moment I step through the door and embrace the lively smells and colors of the Musain, Cosette the bartender is already nagging me to get the hell onto the stage to read my poem before the jazz band returns from their coffee break at the corner table. I’m not very fond of being rushed, but I’m also breathlessly ecstatic to share my writing with the patrons and the new people of the jazz band.

Immediately when I bounce onto the stage with my poem gripped within my hands just as tightly as ever, the attention of every guest swivels to me, anticipating another round of eloquence to rock their worlds and change their perspectives. They know me well, know my artistic style, know even my middle name, and they know that I will not let them down.

I clear my throat as a customary beginning, also useful for stirring the rest of the patrons who are otherwise disposed, and puff out my lips to read what I’ve labored so mercilessly to create.

The audience is absolutely enthralled. I know this better than I know that there are three hundred sixty-five days in a year, ten years in a decade, one hundred years in a century. I know this better than I know what will be waiting for me after I finish my poem, because everything seems so _sure_ on this tiny spot upon the stage of the Musain Café. I’m confident here, confident when I would not be confident elsewhere, and it just adds to the whole aroma of hospitality in this place. It’s the motive that continues to prompt my return. I am certain that the audience appreciates my presence here, and it is for that reason that _I_ appreciate my presence here. It’s a sort of symbiosis, if you will, and it’s a symbiosis from which I never hope to part.

And soon enough, I’m through with my poem, and the applause of many enthusiastic patrons wraps my ears in soft cushions to protect me from any harm I may have previously experienced. It’s a struggle to remove myself from the stage now that I’m reveling in this ecstasy, but I do so anyway, and am met by a stranger.

Now, this stranger isn’t a brutal-looking one. Rather, he is the quite opposite. He is a dapper gentleman, spat out by the Victorian era of England, an ostensibly good-natured spirit with a knack for lively humor. The way I see it, he fits the bill of what a poet would describe as otherworldly in looks, and that’s definitely why he’s such eye candy to me, with irises as green as the young, with locks as ebony as the ashes from a fire. His skin is flawless, like parchment smoothed over a flat surface, but as time progresses, a rose hue pricks his cheeks yet does not spoil his complexion. He’s taller than me by a few inches or so, but the way he beholds me indicates that he hopes to be equals in every other way, and suddenly I don’t feel that short anymore. The features upon this man sell him to the gaze of uncertainty, as he appears to be male, but the way his hips and shoulders melt into curves convince me that he leans more on the feminine side, in addition to his note towards fashion. Most people his age (around my age, I presume; I believe he’s a college student) dress in rugged old t-shirts and skinny jeans, but this man is adorned in clothes typical of the almost bourgeoisie, a black waistcoat with pants, a jacket, and a tie just as dark. I’m not sure if this ensemble was for a special occasion, or if he’s always this mindful of what he drapes over his elegant body, but I’m drawn to it regardless, and his presence here tells me that he’s drawn to me, too, which is confirmed when he begins to speak.

“That was a lovely poem you performed there,” the man acknowledges, painting himself a smile even brighter than snow.

I mirror the gesture, unintentionally inviting a flame to my volatile cheeks, but I really can’t help being attracted to this man, and frankly quite excited that he’s decided to talk to me. “Oh, thank you.”

“Anyway, I’m Montparnasse.” The man offers his hand to me, and I hesitantly slip mine into his, still somewhat flustered by being approached by someone so beautiful.

He surely is charismatic, to say the least, and I would like to get to know him, expand my horizon of new people. Fortunately for me, he seems intent on doing the same, leading me to a table in the corner, a table that has always been aesthetically pleasing for me, relative to its location within the café, where the shadows fling themselves against the oak, where the music stretches last.

Cosette, recognizing that I’m too occupied with Montparnasse to retrieve my celebratory drink, delivers the lemonade to me with that smile about which I sometimes write when I think of her in an air as pleasant as her entire personality. She’s the loveliest women I’ve ever met, and it’s a pleasure to know her, a pleasure to even be around her. Our friendship is a personal one, so I muster the sweetest smile I can, before she turns away to serve other guests, before Montparnasse makes his first move in conversing with me.

“Your name’s Jehan, correct?” He must’ve heard a mention of it within the energetic cheers from the patrons who love me and my poems the most, so I nod.

“And you’re Montparnasse,” I clarify with a shy grin, which my new friend seems to find nothing short of adorable. I’m finding myself infatuated with his name, the title of a place elsewhere in France. It sounds so official yet so casual, a bite of elegance with another equal bite of importance. His name, I now realize, sounds like it could be the name of an artist’s lifelong lover, to whom all paintings and devotions are dedicated. That could most definitely be us in the future in a literal sense, but his name alone has guaranteed the mere speculation of it.

“So do you come here often?”

“I expected you to be more casual, not prone to using terrible pick-up lines,” I giggle. “I expected you to be smooth, is what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s just a bit nerve-wracking to be in the view of someone so pretty.” Montparnasse pins those springtime eyes of his to me, flicking up the loyal servants of eyelashes who act as an overhang for a well of the devilish, completely rupturing my stability.

Almost choking on my own saliva, I admit, “Okay, now _that_ was smooth.”

That comment extracts a chuckle from my newly found companion, and he throws his eyes to the table. “I really don’t know what to say to you, as I’m too caught up in your pulchritude.”

“Oh my god, will you stop?” I jest, playfully swatting his arm. “Since you’re at a loss for words, I’ll start by asking a stock question, I guess. What’s your major? I’m a philosophy major, as you can probably assume from my poems.”

“I actually don’t go to college,” Montparnasse confesses. From the way he utters this, it seems as though he doesn’t care about people’s reaction to it, except this time he does, and the distinction is obvious. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’m here, and he appears to already be developing some sort of crush on me, in addition to the fact that skipping higher education is usually regarded as a lazy or sordid thing to do, expressly because it’s free or close to free in France, but I couldn’t care less. It’s his decision.

“And why is that?” I trim my expression and tone so that it elucidates that I am not judging him in any way for blowing off college, as I’m sure he has a justifiable reason as to why he did it.

“College is like a chain and a lie, woven together in a bond so cohesive that people don’t understand that they’re trapped.” Montparnasse winds the stray napkin on the table into a coil, then flicks it an inch away. “I prefer to be free,” he adds nonchalantly, still focused on the napkin in an activity that some would call a stress reliever, but he’s not as nervous as he was when he declared that he has no interest in college, so he’s probably just bored of the subject.

“Then do you have a job?”

Montparnasse deliberates for more time than is acceptable, which boosts my wariness of him and his intentions. I asked a simple question, but he supplies the labyrinthine answer of, “More or less.” _Now_ he’s nervous again, picking up his pace on rolling the napkin in and out of itself, but it’s none of my business trying to dissect his life, especially not when I’ve just met him, and I leave the topic with the notion that it disconcerts him.

“But not having a job and not going to school allows me a lot of time to get my life together. I tidy up the apartment that my roommate destroys every day, which is difficult when she’s skipping college, too, and is oftentimes breathing down my neck and taunting me about how whatever I do will be reversed a few minutes afterwards.”

I attempt weakly to stifle a laugh, as Montparnasse is clearly burdened by this roommate of his, but it’s too damn funny for me to overlook. “Your roommate sounds like a real gem.”

He shrugs. “At the end of the day, Eponine is still my best friend, and at least she spares my room.”

“She probably thinks it has cooties or something,” I conjecture.

“She sometimes steals my clothes, though, because she claims that men’s products have bigger armpits, which she somehow likes.” Montparnasse acts as though he has no idea why Eponine would do such a thing, but her motives are mostly understandable — women’s clothing screws us again and again.

“Well they do, and you _are_ pretty fashionable.” A wink is shot out through my eye, and lands with a red splotch upon Montparnasse’s face.

This is basically how the rest of the night goes, a new shade of red added after each one of our comments, but I wouldn’t wish for any other alternative. Besides, I manage to snag his number on my way out, too, so I guess things are going pretty well between my charming new friend and me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Jehan and Montparnasse are two of my faves so I need to watch out
> 
> but I end up ruining things anyway bc all of my stories are heart-wrenching :)))
> 
> ~Dakitty


	5. I love my dead gay son

****Jehan's POV** **

On my way to the Musain, I had been clutching fervidly the scrap upon which my poem was written. Now, on my way back from the Musain and towards my apartment, the scrap I clutch is the scrap that holds the phone number of my new acquaintance, an acquaintance I intend to call later in the evening to indicate that I am invested in strengthening our friendship.

I am completely and utterly ecstatic, prancing along the sidewalk with a smile plastered eternally to my face, and nothing can ruin my mood. I, as a poet, already derive beauty from everything, but now that beauty has somehow duplicated, and I drink everything in with a new lens and a deeper appreciation for life.

I’m in the spontaneous crushing phase that may or may not resolve itself, and whether that’s because Montparnasse fades out of my mind or I start to date Montparnasse is out of my mind at the current moment, but all I know is that I am as jubilant as I have ever been, and there are very few things in the entire universe that can convince me that I shouldn’t be this joyous.

One of them, I find unfortunately, is my roommate sitting on the couch and staring at the wall. I can only assume that he’s been like this for a while, as Grantaire is both lazy and determined to perpetuate his laziness for as long as he can, which usually results in Enjolras engaging yet another argument with him. Both the fact that Grantaire is upset, and the fact that fixing him is difficult when he’s got a will of stone, spoils my previously euphoric mood, but I shouldn’t be so selfishly concerned with myself when it’s obvious that my friend is in serious pain.

Being a poet, I am prone to extensive observation. I notice things about people that others don’t, even if I don’t choose to do anything with that information besides watch them more. Grantaire, I’ve concluded, is stronger emotionally than anyone I’ve ever met. If Enjolras yelled at me every day for as long as I’ve known him, then I would be worn to a pulp, but Grantaire can somehow withstand it, and all I can do is wonder how. He amazes me every day with how much he can handle, brushing everything off with a laugh, and not once does he slouch into the sofa like he’s doing now. Something different is plaguing him, and I hope he mitigates his stubbornness enough to tell me what that is.

Judging from the conjecture that Grantaire has been in this numb position for quite a while, I doubt anything will stir him. Even when the door clicked on its hinges as I entered the apartment, he was unfazed, making my job more and more difficult, as if Grantaire isn’t already a burden enough.

“Taire, are you doing okay?” I ask, but he does not budge, so I redirect my body to in front of him, and he still does not acknowledge me, only stares into the wall like he’s been doing for a while before. “Taire, what’s wrong?”

Grantaire has a soft heart for me, and he can only endure so much of my pleading before he’ll snap because he doesn’t want to hurt me, so he surprisingly gives up the fight early in the game. “I fucked everything up.”

I pause for a second, utterly confused. Grantaire claims to be a fuck up as a person, so it doesn’t really affect him when he fucks things up in his life, but now that notion seems to have shifted, and I can’t quite catch up. “Grantaire, I don’t think you could’ve done that.”

“Then tell Enjolras,” my roommate mutters, focusing back on the wall, as it is, quite frankly, very arduous to look people in the eyes when you’re stressed. I get it.

I also get how mad Grantaire is about Enjolras, how he’s been pining for months with nothing but insults thrown in his face, how he’s devoted his life to worshiping a godly man who will supposedly never love him back, and up until now, Grantaire could partially live with that. To fight with Enjolras breaks his heart, yes, but he can always mend it in a split second, because he’s so accustomed to the pain. He trudges on. Not this time, apparently.

My brows tie together. “What happened with Enjolras?”

Grantaire forces himself back into those terrible memories from earlier this evening, flashbacks to the war he once faced, and, to release himself of the trauma faster, he hastily rambles, “We got into a fight, and then I told him I love him, and then I left, and now I’m here, staring at the fucking wall like I’m dead.”

I need a minute to process this all, but Grantaire will only allow me a second before he returns to his self-pity and agony, so it’s my duty to move quickly. However, clarification still calls for words to fill the silence, and clarification is all that I need. “Wait, you told Enjolras you’re head over heels in love with him?”

It’s about time. All of our friends have been praying that they would finally realize their love for each other and go on a fucking date or something, but sadly that has not happened yet. Well, Enjolras has made no sign that he’s interested in Grantaire, but Grantaire has displayed _many_ signs ( _too_ many signs) that his heart belongs to one cause, and that one cause is Enjolras. But now that he’s been rejected and slandered, the ropes holding Grantaire to his only belief are weathering expeditiously, and soon enough he will fall.

We all wanted Grantaire and Enjolras to date, but this is not the way we planned it would go down, not in the slightest. We would’ve never predicted that all of this pining would result in complete and utter pandemonium, that Grantaire would be sitting on the couch with no intentions of revealing the chaotic nature of what really transpired with him and his golden boy. This is not what any of us wanted.

Grantaire is distraught, and I’m not sure if I can get him back, especially not alone. I, the warrior poet, the master of linguistics, cannot find the proper words to soothe my aching friend. Love is a suicide bomb, but there’s nothing Grantaire wants more than to destroy himself, and I can only assume that he’s set on taking us down with him.

“Yeah, I thought it was obvious.”

I sigh, flustered. I was supposed to be enjoying a good night of thinking about my new companion, the charismatic Montparnasse with features as striking as a god’s (basically the equivalent of Enjolras to Grantaire, except not now that they’ve wrecked things together), but instead I’m having to coax my depressed friend out of his mental state. It’s not that I’m unwilling to do it, just that it’s tough as hell when you’ve got a roommate as obstinate as mine.

This is going to be a long night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Jehan is too pure for this world and I just want Grantaire to be happy but obviously I'm an agonizing writer
> 
> sorry about that
> 
> ~Dicknut


	6. can grantaire pls not

**Grantaire's POV**

It is a universally accepted fact of life that edible products must be worn down at some point. Things run out. That’s natural. No matter how hard you wish it _didn’t_ run out, you’re still going to be staring at something empty with only a useless whim by your side, a whim that doesn’t count for shit. If you consume things, they will run dry. Humans crave things endlessly, yes, but there is a consequence to those cravings. You can only have a limited supply of some things, and while it’s your choice to eat your items at different points throughout your possession of them, it’s not your choice to sustain them forever. Depletion is inevitable, and present wherever you go. Everything is limited.

But then there comes the question of how long it takes before that product runs out. Even if you only have two loaves of bread, per se, you can spread out your consumption of them for as long as you want, and after a while you could potentially surpass the person with seven loaves of bread who ate all of their provisions in a short amount of time (that’s what decadence does for you — it makes you believe your supplies are infinitely abundant). It is dependent solely on choice.

However, when the product onto which you are so desperately grasping is something so tempting that you cannot postpone your consumption of it, then it will be devoured in a short amount of time, regardless of whether or not you have a small amount or a large amount. There is a whole world of delectable things, like cotton candy, apple juice, and especially painkillers.

When you’re downing eight painkillers a day, you’re not going to be able to maintain your supply for that long, especially when it’s emotional pain that’s driving you to take a few. I had been swallowing a painkiller each time the agony of my memories inundated me, and they worked, except they worked so well that I’m now out of them, and it’s not like I have enough extra money in my pockets to waste on killing myself over a long awaited expression of the truth.

Joly had allotted me a small bottle of painkillers for my migraines, and those did the job, but then I was left with only half of the bottle left, which could only last for so long. I’m keeping the bottle in which the medicine was stored for some nostalgic reason perhaps, probably as a reminder of what I did and how I messed everything up as usual.

Anyone will tell you that drugs are a bad idea, even people who use drugs themselves. Sometimes pharmaceutical drugs are a bad idea, too, and those are meant to help physical problems. Lots of people who run into problems are people who use drugs for emotional problems, like me, but it’s so damn difficult to pull away from their clutch when it’s so inviting and so corrective. But maybe a lack of my first bottle of painkillers will put me back on the right track, will claim that I depleted my bottle for a reason pertinent to my already failing health, will save me from myself, and maybe a lack of painkillers will also present itself as something too blissful to lazy people such as me, painting the act of obtaining more medicine as something far beyond laborious, and I have never been one to go out of my way to achieve things, not like Enjolras, the man who started this all, the man from whom I’m endeavoring to escape through fucking drugs of all things.

Every place I’ve been is a reminder of Enjolras, because at some point I’ve probably thought favorably about him in that area, so now I’m out on the streets on the hunt for a coincidental bottle of painkillers that will likely never appear, and something new, something to keep my mind off of the person I shattered, the person who shattered _me_.

I haven’t ever visited this part of town, which makes it perfect for my needs. I can see part of it from the window of my apartment, mostly just the Ferris wheel standing proudly above the city of Paris, but I haven’t taken time out of my day to observe it closer. It’s interesting, no doubt, and I guess I’ve always wanted to participate in the fair games of the surrounding carnival ground, but dreams fade, and dreams are forgotten, and I never got around to it, but now I’m here, with nothing planting me to the ground like the Ferris wheel is, with nothing directing me towards anything, with nothing in my head but a craving for painkillers when I am fully aware of how they’ll fuck me up even more, but new places are meant for new adventures, I suppose.

I decide to examine the Ferris wheel up close, analyze every piece and part of it, how the color has partially flecked off from years of use and years of the weather beating down upon its metal body, how rust has made a home in the creaking corners, how the structure could reach Mount Olympus if it really desired to do so. It makes a human feel irrelevant, takes them out of their selfish world to show them that they are part of an ecosystem where they are not the only ones who exist. It’s beautiful, both in the imagery and in the metaphor. Jehan would love it, were it not for the fact that Jehan thinks I’m just breathing in some fresh air to clear my mind, which isn’t so much false, just that it’s leaving out _how_ I’ll accomplish that goal, and that makes all the difference.

Jehan, nor any of my friends, has no idea that I’m out by the Ferris wheel, where I have never been before, and I hope it will remain that way, because although he despises shouting at people, he cares too much about my safety to let this one slide. He’s an amazing friend for being invested in my security, but it’s just not what I need for now. It’s not a pleasant experience having your friend watch as you engage in the first step of killing yourself. I’d rather spare him the pain, and leave him out of it.

It’s nice to be alone when most of the time my friends are breathing down my neck with lungs that don’t reek of alcohol as mine do, and even if I’m sparking my demise, I’m enjoying my time here, however limited it is. Except…when I round the corner of the Ferris wheel mast to examine the other side, it appears that I am not alone.

Taking the place of nothingness, there is a man who looks about my age, but there’s something about him that suggests he is as rebellious as both a teenager and a middle-aged political heretic, neither of which are comforting. To stumble upon a man such as this when you’ve never been here before, when you have no idea if this place is known as fishy among the Parisian residents, is nerve-wracking, to say the absolute least. I don’t know who this guy is, and it would probably be a fool’s move to try and figure that out, but he stops me before I can run.

The man doesn’t even look at me, but he can sense me nonetheless. “Do you come here often?” he asks, finally removing himself from his reclining position on the post of the Ferris wheel, stalking over to me. His lips wring into a sort of snarl, yet another action to warn me against him, but his arresting nature keeps me here by force. “I smell new blood.”

“No, I’m just wandering,” I murmur, surprisingly not as timid as I thought I would be, judging from how fucking terrifying this guy looks.

I’m not saying he isn’t handsome, because he really is (with eyes brighter than my future, hair healthy and vibrant with the hues of night, and features cut as if from marble), but the way he utilizes his beauty is to intimidate. If he isn’t a criminal by governmental bounds, then he’s a criminal for being so goddamn seductive. I can bet he’s lured people into his trap with his appearance alone, though his appearance in this moment is leaning towards that of a vampire hell bent on revenge.

“Trying to get lost, huh?”

I nod. This guy knows me better than anyone else, but I can only assume that it’s because he’s experienced the same thing. No one likes to hang out with distant people, not even distant people themselves. This criminal of a person is bad news, and although I’m a hopeless case like him, I’ll become even more hopeless if we become friends. I’m not risking it. I’m somewhat disposed towards ruining my life until everything is so threadbare that I won’t have any more problems, but this man will surely find a way to ruin the bedrock if I follow up with him. Unless he has something to offer me, something that I desperately need, there’s no chance in hell I’m talking to him outside of today.

“The name’s Montparnasse,” he introduces himself absently. He isn’t focused on my face for once, having abandoned his successful intimidation tactic called eye contact, rather spying something near my abdomen. He approaches me, which I hesitantly back away from, but he snatches something out of my pocket just in time: my empty bottle of painkillers.

“Give that back!” I feebly attempt to reclaim my shell of a container, but Montparnasse is too tall and too familiar with his long limbs, so I’m only jumping and reaching like a schoolboy in the midst of being teased by bullies, which Montparnasse may be.

“I presume you’re looking for more of these?”

I don’t answer him, only presenting my best scowl, but he remains unfazed. He is powerful — I can see that; anyone can see that. It’s a glow that he emanates. He has the power to help me attain more of those lovely painkillers. Were it not for Montparnasse, I would’ve grown out of my obsession with them, as acquiring them is too arduous for someone like me, but now that he’s implying that he has some, I can’t expect myself to have the will to refuse.

“I can hook you up with them, if you’d like.”

I can feel two portions of my brain dichotomizing themselves so that they can nag at each other from separate lines of the battlefield, one of them proclaiming that Montparnasse should not be trusted under any circumstances, the other proclaiming that painkillers are what I’ve been craving ever since I ran out and Montparnasse has offered a worry-free deal. I don’t know which to listen to, so I allow the devil called impulsivity to decide for me. Whatever makes it out of my mouth first is the winner.

“That would be great,” I accept, and instantaneously I file a report of overwhelming amounts of regret, but the words are already out of my mouth, and Montparnasse doesn’t seem like the kind of person to back down from a deal.

With a smile oddly reminiscent of a monster, Montparnasse disappears behind the Ferris wheel post again, only to procure a large leather bag of what I assume are drugs. He’s a fucking drug dealer as a profession? I’m not just an opportunity upon which he pounced so lucratively? Interesting. This just shows why I shouldn’t trust the man, but if he has enough drugs in that bag to sustain an addict for a pretty long time (or so it seems), then he must be a popular dealer with enough manipulation skills to snare me as he did.

Montparnasse roots through his bag for a moment, possessing so many bottles and bags of different drugs that it’s difficult to differentiate among them, but eventually he produces a bottle of painkillers, equipped to quiet me for much longer than Joly’s scanty bottle did. He extends it to me, and I reach to grab it, until he retracts it again to resolve the conditions of the trade.

“All right, what’s your price?” I groan, clipping my hands to my waist and tapping my foot in anticipation, as if I’m a pantsuit-wearing suburban mom late for a PTA meeting.

“You know—” Montparnasse pauses, searching for the name with which I have not provided him yet.

“Grantaire,” I supply, ordering another mistake by telling him my name. Who knows what he could do with something as simple as a few letters?

“—Grantaire, you look like you’d be the kind of person who could be useful in lots of situations,” Montparnasse comments, completely irrelevant to what we were trying to discuss, and I would be more angry, were it not for the unsettling feeling his words dropped into my chest.

I don’t want this criminal making assumptions about me, primarily because he’s both dangerous and more sordid than even I am, so if he’s judging me, then I must really be fucked up. I thought heretics banded together, but apparently there’s still enough room in the equation for condemnation. And what he said irks me the most. What does he mean by saying that I’m useful? What does he want from me?

“You don’t have to pay me any money, but with each pill bottle, you owe me a favor.” Montparnasse holds up the miniature plastic stash of painkillers, angles his head, and wordlessly asks me if I’m willing to accept the offer. “Do we have a deal?”

Never in a million years would I have predicted that I would be in this situation, held solely at the mercy of a drug dealer because my body can’t maintain itself without a little help from poison, from addiction,

But, really, what choice do I have?

“Fine.”

Montparnasse looks pleased, but pleasure manifests peculiarly upon a face like his, a face warped by his nasty personality, a face I wouldn’t ever trust. He tosses me the pill bottle, and I almost drop it in my disoriented state, but I barely have any time to recover before he’s asking for my phone number, an item I don’t want to give but an item I _must_ give, or else he’ll find my address as well, and will probably come to murder me and take back his drugs because I was a worthless customer.

So it’s my only choice to hand my phone number over to a criminal whose intentions are still as vague as ever, and I’m nothing less than defeated. Montparnasse, however, is fucking glorious.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” A sneer lurks in the corner of his apple lips, as his eyes drill into me like he wants more secrets than I’ve already given him, and after he’s content with how much he’s disconcerted me, he prepares to turn back to his post. “ _Sir_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: when ur characters actually have two sides lmao montparnasse is gonna be interesting to write
> 
> why am I writing so much today omg
> 
> ~Dakotanning-bed


	7. I seek an escape

**Grantaire's POV**

Being painfully asocial, I rarely receive texts. My own friends don’t even text me all that much, so to see my screen flashing with a message from Combeferre is a rarity, and frankly quite unnerving. Combeferre is as diplomatic as people come, so if it were to be texting _me_ , the immature one, then I must be the last resort for an emergency, and I’d better answer that goddamn text. It’s not like I really care about shit anymore, but Combeferre has been my friend for a while, so it’s kind of my duty to assist him, in addition to the fact that lots of self-help manuals will tell you that helping others can improve your mood, too, although the painkillers seem to be doing that just fine.

I swipe the screen of my phone, enter in my password (which is really just a reference to rats using the number codes to accommodate letters), and peer down at the text I’ve received, which, as I read it, isn’t so much an emergency, surprisingly.

****_Meet me at the Corinth? I need to talk to you._ ** **

I don’t know what he could possibly want, considering he doesn’t go out of his way to talk to me, despite our friendship spanning the terrain of a couple years, but I close my phone, sighing, and make my way down to the destination with nothing better to do. Hopefully it will occupy me, at least.

~~~~~

When I arrive at the Corinth, a homely wine shop a couple blocks down the street from my apartment (protruding from the opposite direction of the Musain, my other frequent hangout), the place is desolate, which can be mostly attributed to the time, an era when most people would be at home, cooking dinner or performing other evening activities about which I would have no clue because, as I mentioned, I’m a very asocial person. Kenopsia weaves into my mindset, an eerie warning that not is all that it seems. This shop is so desolate that Combeferre is the only person here, or so it seems, as a shadow lurks in the corner, somewhat familiar but somewhat distant simultaneously. I just assume he’s on his own in this place, unrelated to Combeferre’s business with me, business whose intentions I have no idea about.

Combeferre flags me down, scooting out a chair for me with his foot, which I graciously accept. I’m more nervous than I usually am, more on edge, which is either a side effect of the pain killers or a side effect of being stabbed in the back by someone I only wanted to please, maybe both. And something about the fishiness of this situation leads me to believe that the person I only wanted to please may be the center of the discussion I’m about to have with Combeferre.

My companion doesn’t talk for a few moments, instead taking the time to absorb what’s become of me. I’ll admit — my appearance is more haggard and disheveled than it would normally be, which is a difficult status to achieve, so I can understand why Combeferre would be a bit more than astonished to see me like this, but, because he’s Enjolras’ roommate, he probably knows what went down between us, and because he is one of the many people who wants us to end up together, he’s most likely just trying to recover from the way my love for Enjolras manifests upon my rough figure.

Since it’s clear that Combeferre is too stunned to talk, I proceed with the conversation, having dealt with this awkward silence for long enough (I don’t appreciate being stared at, even if I do it to other people all the time). “So why did you call me in here?”

Combeferre snaps back to the present with an alarming jolt, and once he works his way through registering my question, a smile plucks the remnants of confusion from his face, but bits of mischief replace them. “Enjolras!” he calls.

Enjolras? What is Enjolras, of all people, doing here? That must’ve been the lonely figure creeping in the edge of the Corinth, and that’s why he looked so familiar yet so distant to me. Nevertheless, I do _not_ want to see Enjolras under any circumstances, but my brain soon splits away from that statement so that there are two halves, one that yearns for Enjolras’ forgiveness, one that yearns to be free of this trap into which my so-called friend lured me.

“Is this some sort of fucking intervention?” I shout, panicked, startling the shy bartender who, until now, was uninterested with our affairs, and probably didn’t even realize we were here. “I _trusted_ you, Combeferre! How could you do this?”

My threats do not prevent Enjolras from making his way over to our table, and thus pandemonium consumes me. He can’t be here, no, not yet. Yeah, he looks just as anxious as I do, but two anxieties don’t produce a neurotypical result. They produce fearful silence between the two parties hosting them. Enjolras and I will move nowhere but backwards, but Combeferre is being as stubborn as Enjolras says _I_ am.

Combeferre twists his arms together across his chest, reclining in his chair. “I hope you’ve recovered enough from yesterday’s excursion, as it’s now time to sort through some differences.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” I inquire, movements as frantic as a puppy new to the world, a puppy _terrified_ of the world.

“No, because if I did, then you would just sit here quietly, and rant about each other in your heads.”

He has a fair point, but I still do not want to be here in any arrangement of events. I love Enjolras, and I always have, but now there’s a film that has settled over us and turned our relationship to dust, a top layer that makes all the difference, a top layer that blinds us from seeing that we could be much more than arguments. That top layer, no matter how thin, is the only thing upon which any of us are focusing, and Combeferre is now trying to remove it. Props to him, but is that an attainable goal? Is he simply shouting into the void that everyone made a point of avoiding?

Enjolras and I exchange our first glances since I stormed out of his apartment to try and hide my accumulating tears, and they’re more powerful than I ever would’ve expected. There’s an intensity in it, an intensity that I cannot properly describe with words nor paint. Calling it “opia” wouldn’t even be enough, as that’s just a definition. I need the entire world in order to express this, every word in existence, both verbal and in the unspoken plains of how things just _are_ , how existence is too complex to pinpoint. It’s like that, yet it’s not like that, because that only scrapes a millimeter of material when we’re working with a skyscraper. All I know is that it’s fascinating, that it pulls me in, that it seems to last a century, and I barely hear what Combeferre is saying until I break the connection like I don’t give a shit anymore when, in reality, all I’ve been doing is giving a shit, and that’s why I’m such a wreck.

I hate that Enjolras has to see me like this, because although I always look like an incorrigible wretch, I look even worse now than I do on regular days. Even Enjolras, a man who battles with the _gods_ for the title of most magnificent, has been hollowed out by yesterday’s tussle. His previously golden skin is now flattened to a pallor, and his radiantly crystal eyes no longer shine as bright. Unfortunately, the fight did not take the biggest toll on us, as our states are further worsened by the shared knowledge that we did this to _each other_ , that it was our volatile human nature that landed us in this position, that this could’ve been prevented if we were only smarter.

We are bound to end in ruin.

“First order of business,” Combeferre begins, dropping his palms flat onto the table with a thud, therefore jarring us out of our remission from how potent the stare Enjolras and I cherished was. “Let’s start by getting you both to actually talk to each other. Seriously, you look like petulant children.”

I wince, and, astonishingly, so does Enjolras. He knows that “petulant child” is one of his favorite things to call me when we’re fighting, and our fighting is the reason why we are now so estranged and why we are sitting in this café in the midst of an intervention, but we won’t ever break free of our fighting if we don’t talk to each other, so I follow Combeferre’s advice.

“Did you mean what you said, Enjolras?” I ask. That question probably wasn’t so appropriate, because it stirs the blame onto Enjolras for saying those things, instead of me, who triggered by them by being a petulant child, but people only recognize one side, so it’s mostly a controversial question, a controversial question that I cannot take back.

Combeferre looks as though he’s just been punched, as I’ve undermined his whole plan with one simple phrase. I was not supposed to say something like that. It was supposed to be more positive than it is, but I’m the master of fucking things up.

Enjolras’ personality has flipped to that of my roommate’s. He’s quiet and reserved and frankly a whole lot nervous, too. The Enjolras I know isn’t scared of anything, especially not telling me how he really feels about my obstinacy. He is a natural leader who never backs down. He is confident in ways that I didn’t think people could be confident. That’s what I admired about him. This? This is not Enjolras. I just want him back, but I keep throwing him into uncomfortable situations. I’ve done enough. I let him speak.

He’s hesitant, though, because while I’m willing to listen to what he has to say, he doesn’t even _know_ what he’s going to say, as I tossed this bomb at him and expected him to catch it with his fingernail, but good old Enjolras always tries to power through things, regardless of whether or not it exhausts him to the point of near mental combustion, and I should appreciate him for persevering for my sake, but he’s wearing himself out trying to speak. “Grantaire,” Enjolras starts, testing out my name, but that’s as far as he gets before pausing. “Grantaire, while it is true that you are stubborn and petulant often, that doesn’t mean you are not my friend, and that doesn’t mean I should’ve acted as I did last night. I lashed out at you when I should not have, and I am very sorry.”

It’s incredibly demanding to push those words out, but Enjolras has accomplished things I could never accomplish, like he does always, and I am indescribably grateful that he could find it within himself to tell the truth. I knew that what he said was the ineluctable answer, the sole outcome, and that’s okay. I’m just thankful that Enjolras didn’t lie to me about what I already understand. Yes, his apology did seem somewhat phony, but he was scared. Fear warps the human mind in unimaginable ways, so Enjolras opted for the cavalier route to protect all of us from his emotional vomit, but one part of me wants to have heard what he would’ve said.

Combeferre looks perfectly satisfied with Enjolras’ apology, which means that it’s time for mine next, and I’m not sure that I can supply it. Both Combeferre and Enjolras are counting on me to deliver, and I fear that Enjolras’ fate depends on it, but a half-assed reply is most likely the best thing I can muster. Enjolras makes things look easy, whereas I screw up even the mundane. There’s an enormous gap between our articulation skills, and I’m going to be scolded by Combeferre for it. If it were my decision, I wouldn’t be so underperforming, but obviously it is _not_ my decision, so I’m stuck with the bare minimum and whatever lies below.

Combeferre, the diplomat of the occasion, turns to me, props up a brow higher upon his forehead, and awaits my response, as if I’m the kind of person to speak as clearly as Enjolras. Combeferre is better friends with the golden Apollo than he is with me, so he is less accustomed to how I function, how I cannot produce the same verve typical of his roommate. That’s just how it goes, but a response is mandatory, and oftentimes life throws me into places I never wanted to be, and I am forced to trudge through them. This is just another one of those places, and at least the outcome of my hypothetical success will strengthen the bond between me and Enjolras once more.

I have no idea what I am going to say, what I _should_ say. I’m far from adept at processing what’s suitable for the situation, so all that’s left for me is to destroy the meeting more than I already have, but there are no other options, so I go for it, and hope things don’t end up so bad.

“Enjolras, I am truly sorry that I pester you all the time, and I may not have realized that until now, but within the short time of one half of a day, I have changed my mind, and I’m hoping to become more respectful of you, because I am cognizant that you work hard, but all I do is try to throw you off, so I will do my best to alter my stubbornness.” This is going well so far; I’ve grabbed Combeferre’s attention and, most importantly, Enjolras’ attention, too, so I decide to continue. “I can understand why you yell at me so often, and I can understand that I deserve it as well. Everyone’s bound to crack at some point.” I’m forgetting the most imperative part, the bomb I deployed seemingly out of nowhere, the part that’s most strenuous for me to share. “And I’m sorry that I dropped all that news on you about…well, you know.” I buckle my vision to my lap so as to escape Enjolras’ determined stare, but I still detect its interested heat pounding against my back, an example of rubatosis from the sun I call Enjolras’ view.

The Corinth is silent. The bartender has retreated to the Employees Only portion of the shop, and no other patrons are here to fill the room with the hearty noises of good cheer and alcohol. It’s just Combeferre, Enjolras, and I, and we’re all quieted by my apology, as reneging on my words only occurs every once in a blue moon. I’m not one to say sorry, but I somehow said all that needed to be said, and that’s enough to stun all three of us.

Combeferre’s gaze circles the table and refrains from nearing any other people, while Enjolras’ gaze is solely fixed on me, mouth halfway ajar in amazement. This only lasts for a few agonizing moments, before sobs chug out of his throat in choppy intervals, and tears soon follow out of his eyes.

Combeferre is aghast, to say the least. He finally glances up from tracing the table with his vision, and beholds a weeping Enjolras. Neither of us are familiar with this person sitting before us, and we’re frankly quite frightened by what we _do_ see. We know the Enjolras who doesn’t cry, the Enjolras who can endure anything without so much as a split second of dubiety, not the Enjolras who breaks down because he made a mistake. Enjolras doesn’t even make mistakes. Who is this, and why is he so distressed?

The only thing I can think to do is something Enjolras would avidly reject on any other occasion, but judging by the nature of our conversation, it’s something that’s needed. Hugs are so simple, but there is no describing how helpful they can be. I’m living purely on the chance that Enjolras will not shove me away like he regularly would, but maybe chance is what living is for.

Warily my arms slither around Enjolras, perhaps a bit too forcefully for his liking, but everything is shaky when you’re distraught, and there’s no trying to deny that I’m anything less than distraught, so I settle for what I can. I’ve been living on the scraps for all of my life, and while it’s unfair for me to transmit such petty things to one who deserves the world, it’s all I can do, and maybe it _feels_ like the world to him.

Everyone here is ultimately amazed that I could’ve made such a move, but I do not regret it. There is no room for remorse when I kicked it out at the beginning of this conversation in order to lodge the angel of love. The plain truth is that I am irrevocably in love with someone much bigger than me, someone who is breaking, and all I can give is a hug, but a hug is exactly what he needs, and it is enough. That’s all I’ve ever wanted — to be enough.

“You two have made good progress,” Combeferre congratulates us, words accompanied by a genuine smile, something I’ve so rarely seen. “I’m proud of you both. Now it’s time for phase two. We’re switching roommates tonight.”

Almost instinctively, and at the same exact moment, Enjolras and I whip our heads around to ogle our rogue friend. Switch roommates? We just had a falling out, and Combeferre is already trying to push us together again in a situation more intimate than we had ever experienced when we weren’t scared of merely seeing each other. We may revert to our old customs of yelling at each other whenever possible. I highly doubt we can survive in an environment alone together, let alone an obligatorily, but Combeferre has labored faithfully enough, and he deserves a reprieve from trying to work out problems that aren’t even his, not to mention that if he’s rooming with Jehan for the night, he won’t have to listen to Enjolras bitching about me or whatever he’s going to say.

“Switching roommates?” Enjolras gasps, utterly appalled and as confused as I am.

“You need to learn how to interact politely with each other when there aren’t people around to hold you back from a fistfight.”

Yes, this is a grand thing to ask of us, when all we’ve done before is bicker — and that’s not even when we’re alone, but I have no idea what will happen when we _are_ alone, because our friends are too scared to expose us to the opportunity — but it’s obvious that Enjolras and I are both invested in rebuilding our friendship, so we tacitly accept, and Combeferre leans back, ready to relax after trudging through heaps and heaps of drama.

“Good luck,” he chuckles.

Enjolras and I click eyes, and the slightest of smiles rises to my lips. For now, we have hope. Hope is all I seek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was writing a lot when the internet crashed so I couldn't upload chapters rip me
> 
> so anyway they're kind of fixed not really idk I'm doing a shitty job with this
> 
> ~Dakrap


	8. ode to ramen

****Jehan's POV** **

Ah, ramen noodles. How I love ramen noodles. Half-assed pasta is such a great alternative to a home-cooked meal. College students love it beyond words, seeing as it’s so common in their dorms or their apartments or wherever they breed fungus and a thick air of stress. I love ramen noodles so much that I am now in my kitchen, cooking up some of those beautiful ramen noodles because I wasted my entire day daydreaming about that charming young man I encountered at the Musain open mic night yesterday evening.

He is all that has been on my mind, and that’s not so much an unpleasant thing, as Montparnasse is incredibly charming and incredibly attractive, but it sure as hell has been consuming precious time I could’ve spent on other things — for example, not tossing a package of stringy imposters into a pan and shaking it over the rickety stove — but alas, here I am, and it’s too late to do anything about it. Besides, ramen isn’t too bad. I can live with ramen.

What I can’t live with, however, is thinking about one guy for the entire day, just because he took a few minutes out of his day to talk with me, and that might’ve been for a superficial reason. I can’t know his motives for the time being, so I shouldn’t get so worked up over a brief meeting. Yeah, he was extremely handsome, and he had that humorous personality I always enjoy in a person, but there are always other people, people who may even strike me harder than Montparnasse did.

Nevertheless, I shouldn’t waste a perfectly malleable opportunity on thinking that Montparnasse was only interested in me for my looks (which aren’t noticeably sharp, as his are; Grantaire says I’m the adorable kind of pretty, but usually adorable doesn’t attract too many people out in public) or for some kind of business exchange that I wouldn’t recognize as a business exchange because I would think that we genuinely liked each other, the foolish, whimsical, love-craving poet that I am.

Oftentimes I allow the smallest portions of suspicion to influence me more than every other sign pointing me towards a positive chance, so it is in these times that I must remind myself that Montparnasse is right for me, and that I’d enjoy if we could continue to correspond with each other, which is made easy by my possession of his phone number — speaking of possessing his phone number, I should text him right now to let him know that I’d be willing to perpetuate this budding rose of a relationship.

****_Hey, ‘Parnasse. ;)_ ** **

I soon realize that a nickname and a winking face are too typical of my friend, Courfeyrac, who is known as the biggest flirt you’ll ever meet, and I don’t want to seem like I’m only invested in Montparnasse for a casual fling, despite thinking that of him only moments before I opened up my messaging app. I could potentially call him by a nickname once we’re closer friends, but now is not the time, so I delete that section of the text, and continue to draft the introduction to a new relationship.

****_Hey, Montparnasse! It’s Jehan from the Musain. Just wanted to say hi, and see how your day is going._ ** **

That sounds a bit clingy, but it’s the best I can do, so without allotting myself any extra time to change my mind, I slam the send button, and whoosh goes my message, out into the hands of Montparnasse. What’s done is done, and I don’t think Montparnasse will find anything wrong with my text. Humans tend to be overly cautious of themselves and of things that don’t matter. I’m fine.

I’m so fine, in fact, that all I can do is smile to myself as I continue to cook the ramen that surprisingly didn’t burn while I was otherwise occupied with texting my blossoming crush, and nothing can spoil my mood (that, of course, was what I said right before I stumbled upon a raggedy Grantaire, but I’m sure there will be better results this time around).

Now that I’m on the topic of Grantaire, it hits me that I have no idea where he is. I haven’t seen him all day, as he departed before I woke up and hasn’t been back since. I do indeed hope that he isn’t off engaging in reckless activities that could be way more than detrimental to his health, but I suppose I should trust him a bit, too — though, judging from how he’s been acting lately, I don’t think he’s participating in a charity service or something equally as fulfilling. He could be in danger, and, yes, I know that he’s a strong guy, and that he can withstand almost anything if it isn’t pertinent to his weak spot, a golden man he calls Apollo, but he isn’t indestructible. No one is, especially not when their goal is to redeem with destructive behavior the fact that they are capable of crumbling.

I consider texting Combeferre, the responsible one of the group, to ask where Grantaire has gone, as if he knows, but there’s no need for that, for Combeferre is bursting into my apartment for reasons unbeknownst to me, and now I can just ask him in person.

I notice that Combeferre is porting a carry-on bag, which he promptly drops to the floor, right in the middle of the kitchen, and randomly announces, “I’m crashing here for the night, because I’m forcing Grantaire and Enjolras to spend some time together so they can resolve their prissy princess drama.”

My eyebrows tilt upward, astonished that Combeferre could even get them to _talk_. “How did you score _that_?”

Combeferre shrugs, swinging open the door to the refrigerator, perusing the shelves, and selecting a carton of milk as if he’s been living here for years. “I staged an intervention, which neither of them particularly enjoyed, but it was necessary, and I think it helped a lot.” Combeferre somehow knows where the cups are stored, despite never spending much time over here — meetings and social events are held in one of our two favorite cafes or in Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s apartment, and Combeferre isn’t _best_ friends with me or Grantaire — and he pours milk halfway up the container’s sides, then introducing a swig to his throat. He’s probably worn out from talking his friends through relationship drama, and just needs some milk, damn it.

I remove my ramen noodles from the stove, preparing to cook another pack for Combeferre after I dump the food onto a plate and tote it to the kitchen table. Meanwhile, Combeferre is busy gulping down his milk, and the apartment has fallen to silence, besides the faint sounds of my friend swallowing. I conclude it’s time for me to say something about what I’ve been up to today, and how that has led to my ramen noodle excursion.

“Hey, ‘Ferre?”

“Yeah, ‘Vaire?” Combeferre replies with a shit-eating grin, modeling both a rhyme and a moniker out of my last name.

“I met someone last night.” I’m a bit too bashful for someone who is talking to one of their closest friends, but Montparnasse has been the highlight of my past two days, so I’m bound to be somewhat flustered by his mention.

Combeferre groans, stamping his foot on the ground. “Ugh, I don’t need to deal with more drama.”

A laugh drips from my tongue, which I can tell he finds endearing, and I shake my head. “No, things are going fine between me and him. You don’t need to stage another intervention.”

Combeferre looks almost _too_ relieved.

Now that our quick reprieve of laughter has expired, it’s back to my helpless embarrassment. “His name is Montparnasse, and I was wondering if, um…if you and the rest of the gang would like to meet him.”

Combeferre was waiting for me to just push my words out already, and once he hears them, he is absolutely enamored, grateful that I proposed this idea. “Oh, Jehan, we would love to! A friend of you is a friend of me.”

I’m irrefutably grateful that Combeferre approves of my friend, for that reduces a great burden. I won’t date a guy whom my friends don’t like, and that’s why I had been nervous asking this of Combeferre, who only wants to protect all of us, but now that he’s accepted my offer, jubilance engulfs my entire aura, and I feel sunlight radiating from my pores.

“I’m so excited for you to meet him!” I squeal, and Combeferre looks almost as happy as I do, which is quite a formidable challenge.

“As am I, Jehan,” Combeferre agrees.

And, well, that kind of sets the mood for the whole night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: my brother lost his mind when I said I called ramen "half-assed pasta"
> 
> honestly what am I doing
> 
> ~Dicknoodle


	9. let's fuck shit up

**Enjolras' POV**

Combeferre, the control freak that he is, concluded that it was the safest option to walk me and Grantaire home so that he could ensure neither of us would back out on our deal and sprint as fervidly as we could to our apartments, where we would try to forget that any of this ever happened, just backing up a week and deciding that’s good enough because nothing ever changes from the arguing hell between me and my roommate of the night, so it’s clear that I’m stuck with him.

Combeferre also searched if there were any shelters willing to take either of us in for the night — just in case we decided to flee the apartment and pretend as though we endured the night — proving just how controlling he is. Combeferre is a smart man. There’s no denying that. Even if you know nothing about him, his aura is enough to point you towards his sophisticated nature. Combeferre is willing to take every precautionary step to guarantee that we stick together for the terms to which we agreed in a moment of desperation, and although I am aware that this will pay off in the end, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t torture for the time being.

Grantaire will barely acknowledge me, so talking is relatively off the table. I’ve tried to engage him, but to no avail. It seems that his idea of a hobby is staring at the wall, at the table, and reversing. Sometimes he’ll make the mistake of briefly glancing elsewhere, before he expeditiously corrects himself, and returns to one of his two spots.

Was Grantaire just as numb as I was last night, when our argument had just ended? Did he stare at the wall as I did, as he is doing right now? Was he difficult to rouse from his mindless state? Maybe Grantaire and I aren’t so different after all, and maybe we could work out if we know how the other party responds. I’d very much like that, but Grantaire is far from budging, and for the first time in my life, I have no solution.

All I can do is pillage the refrigerator for something to eat, but there is nothing that would be suitable for dinner. The only thing that could pass as a meal would be these random fruit cups Combeferre bought a week ago and never ate. I select four fruit cups, two for each of us, so that we can sustain ourselves for a little while, though I doubt we need much. Tumult can purge hunger as well as medicine can.

I place the fruit cups in front of Grantaire, mindful of how much noise I make in an attempt to rattle him from his creepy staring activities, and I barely succeed. He only glances up at me, nods his head robotically in thanks, and operates his limbs as if he were made out of metal, slow and mechanistic, deliberate as if with a program installed unwaveringly into his head.

I am very sorry that fruit cups are the best I can provide us with, but I don’t think Grantaire minds at all. In fact, I think he’s actually enjoying them (if “enjoying” is the proper word; he looks just about as enthused as a rock), which is somewhat of a relief. I’m already stressed as it is. I don’t need to get worked up over some goddamn fruit cups.

Ah, so I’m spending the night with someone who unseals the top of the cup minutely before he eats the fruit, just so he can drain the juice from it. It’s a smart move, actually, because then when you go to try and bust open the container, the juice doesn’t go sloshing around on your table and your clothes. Grantaire is more scholarly than I would’ve thought, even if it’s for something as mundane as working a fruit cup.

Grantaire plunders his pockets for a moment until he procures something, but I can’t detect what it is, as he’s maneuvering his hands under the table and promptly returning his item to where it originated. I see soon enough that it’s a pill, which he washes down with a swig of the remaining fruit juice at the bottom of the cup.

What could he be needing pills for? Yeah, I can sense some symptoms of depression and migraines and most likely some other issues, too, but I didn’t think he would be suited for the routine life of taking pills. Grantaire has professed to me many times that he does not abide by a schedule, which is why he shows up late to almost every social event, so being required to take pills at the same time every day would surely disconcert him, to say the least.

But Grantaire also doesn’t seem like the person to be avid about helping himself. He would much rather wallow in his despair than do anything that would require him to move an inch. He’s obnoxiously lazy, and that’s screwed him many times, including the voluntary neglect of his body and mind. He frankly doesn’t give a shit (and never has), so pills are a con for him. And even if he were on medication to aid him with his probable depression, they don’t seem to be as effective as they should be, which leads me to believe that the pills function for another purpose: substance abuse.

It wouldn’t be total bullshit to say that Grantaire has struggled with some substance abuse issues. I could still most likely perceive this about him even if I was unaware that he has, in fact, suffered at the hands of alcoholism. I didn’t know him while he was at his raging climax, but I caught the tail end of it, and Joly informed me of the rest. Joly has always been very supportive of Grantaire, and he’s played a part in the magic that went into Grantaire quitting his alcohol addiction, but now Grantaire may be obsessed with pills instead, broadening his palette, if you will.

I shouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet, as these pills could be regular medicine for a regular cause. Just because Grantaire wrestled with some issues in the past, doesn’t mean that he’s prone to a relapse with a different medium. He may have been hiding his pill bottle under the table, because he is so critical of medicine for labeling him as instable, and for some reason Grantaire doesn’t like _me_ knowing that he’s a fuck up (that’s his favorite thing to call himself, and I wish he would stop). He’s okay with other people knowing, because it’s quite the burden laboring to hide a central part of yourself to the whole world, but he still guards himself around me, and it’s not really my business to ask why, nor is it my business to intrude on his pill-taking activities, so I drop everything.

Grantaire remains silent, now moving onto sucking the life out of his second fruit cup (while I am eating mine agonizingly slow because of how thick my thoughts are, how they encumber me and shut down my physical actions to reserve energy for themselves), but I’m through with this quiet. Soon enough I’ll go insane, because humans can only withstand so much. I need to speak.

“Grantaire, can’t we just pretend like our fight never happened?” I plead, scrunching my brows together in an expression of my blatant desperation. “We’ve already resolved it with Combeferre, so now it’s basically just an empty shell who’s too self-righteous to move out of the way. It’s hollow, Grantaire.”

“ _I’m_ hollow, Enjolras,” Grantaire spits back, his first sentence since he arrived here almost a half hour ago. His eyes are an inferno whose fury I have never before witnessed in anyone, especially not the sarcastic, fun-loving Grantaire.

“Grantaire, I don’t hate you. At all. I just want my friend back. _Please_.” My voice snaps off at the end as if it were tree bark, plastered onto something people see as sturdy, something that is actually far from it. Tears snip the edges of my eyes, sting me all over, and when Grantaire beholds me it is clear that he is in the same state.

Grantaire’s whole mood has shifted from spite to begging in a matter of seconds. His eyes trail towards mine, hosting both tears and a shakiness in his sapphire blues, and murmurs only one thing: “I want you back forever.”

~~~~~

After a difficult day, Grantaire is as tired as can be. He managed to lure me onto the couch, and is now curled into my side like a puppy, compacting himself as much as possible to be wholly consumed by me. His breathing is slow and steady, which conveys that he trusts me and which also indicates that he’s calmed down from the malicious tremors of today. It looks as though he’s prepared for sleep, as though he’s so close to grasping it, yet he still holds onto reality for a little while longer, cherishing his moments with me.

I have no idea what made Grantaire decide to draw himself so close to me when only two hours earlier he was at my neck with something as simple as his facial expressions, but it’s not like I’m complaining. I’m enjoying the time with him just as much as he is. Would it be so sinful to admit that I don’t want this to end?

Multiple seconds later, I spy the feeble snoring of the companion snuggled beside me, oddly reminiscent of a baby animal, breath so feathery and light that it swarms high enough to dance with the stars. He is finally at rest, drafted into the peace he deserves. He is safe.

I convince myself that it’s suitable for me to fall asleep in this position with Grantaire already knocked out by the stress of the day, but the screen of my phone, who has been resting on the armrest for as long as I have been relaxing on the couch with my regained friend, jumps to life with a text from Combeferre. He’s either trying to tell me that I’d better be with Grantaire (or he’ll kick my ass all the way to the neighboring country of Germany), or that he’s having the grandest time with Jehan and he hopes I’m having a good time with Grantaire — and if I’m not, then I need a find a way to do so.

I unlock my phone and read what the message actually says.

****_How is it with you and Grantaire?_ ** **

I glance down at the small boy tucked under my arm, and a smile is all that welcomes itself to the smooth canvas of my face, evidently reveling in how intimate Grantaire and I have become in only a few minutes.

My reply comes as naturally as breathing, as definitively as fact, as amorous as new birth in spring. It is all I know to be true, to be holy, to be certain, and that one word speaks it all.

****_Perfect._ ** **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm just playing myself by this point honestly
> 
> everything is still rekt tho
> 
> ~Dakotoe


	10. the rats awaken

****Enjolras' POV** **

It is with confidence (the same confidence that my friends admire in me) that I say last night mended all that was amiss with me and Grantaire. Now, it’s not like we’re perfect friends — we never were — considering he still doesn’t talk much to me, and when he does talk, it’s timid and fragile, but we’re making good progress, and that’s all that matters. Progress is still partial, but progress is a steady line towards the finish line, and I am determined to stick with it until we aren’t fighting at every given chance.

Admittedly, some of my previous characteristics have dropped dead in favor of Grantaire, and I haven’t realized it until now. I was certain in everything that I did, but now I find myself calculating every move, never trusting the intuition that hasn’t let me down before but is nevertheless disowned for the time being, and even after sorting through every possible outcome of my actions, I still don’t know what to do, because Grantaire is volatile and prone to hurt in ways that I couldn’t imagine, ways that I couldn’t analyze, ways that I couldn’t prevent. I really don’t want to harm him — I don’t. Most people would beg to differ, seeing as most of our conversations involve me shouting at him for the same reason, but I wouldn’t be hung up on that reason unless I believed it could be fixed. I tell him what he’s doing wrong so that he can revise it, though he never does.

The old Grantaire wouldn’t dream of revealing his emotions as he did last night, but this isn’t the old Grantaire. Through our fighting, I warped him into a shell, and I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not sure that it can be reversed, at least not in the presence of me. I screwed everything up, and now I’m seeing folds of Grantaire that I would’ve never seen before, had he not been so emotionally devastated by what _I_ did, but it’s not very much of a treat to witness those hidden layers. I see now that there is a reason why they were secret in the first place. But everything’s tumbling loose with us, so he can’t really control which stays back on the ledge of safety, and for the first time in my life, neither can I. I require my qualities in order to help Grantaire, but I have nothing. I now dwell in the poverty of soul and spirit, of strength more important in mindset than in physicality, and I am calling out into the infinite void.

And by some heavenly stroke of luck, I’ve managed to reel in some of my pleas and some of my doubts and some of myself. I know through one simple action that Grantaire’s faith in his old friend has been restored to some extent (whose intensity remains unbeknownst to me), and in that replenished faith, we fell asleep on the couch together, and drifted through the night as peacefully as a dove would drift through the sky, no destination clear in our minds as long as we’re free.

It is by this luck that I wake gently upon the couch in my living room, feeling young and like budding flowers. Grantaire has retreated, which is probably more alarming to me than it should be, but I soon find him sitting in a chair that he brought over from the kitchen table, looking as pensive as I’ve seen him. He appears to be drawing something, judging from the piece of printer paper hooked to a clipboard in his lap, but he’s awfully close to me to be drawing something about which I would’ve felt safe.

I don’t enjoy talking about topics that regard myself, and I never have. I’ve accomplished so much, yes, perhaps more so than anyone I know my age, but there’s no use in glorifying me for altruism when altruism, by definition, is meant to benefit other people. It is for that reason that I avoid pictures when they are not mandatory, and if anyone decided that they wished to draw me, then I would avoid that, too.

But Grantaire doesn’t give a shit about what people don’t like, because he lives to annoy people, or so it seems, so he wouldn’t ever think to ask my consent before he procured some paper and a clipboard (I don’t know how he found these things, if I’m being completely honest) and sat down to draw me. He’s not an unskilled artist, no. In fact, he’s amazing, from what I’ve seen of his work by casually sneaking behind Jehan when Grantaire shows the drawings to him because he doesn’t want the rest of the gang to see them. My issue is that I should not be the subject of someone’s praise, nor the cause of their graphite shortage. I don’t want to waste their time with something as mundane as my worn old face.

If I ever told Grantaire to stop, which he probably wouldn’t do after he’s already started the drawing, he would most likely tell me that I deserve to be in a drawing, as he’s been fawning over my appearance for as long as he’s witnessed it, and he will continue with his work, despite my other ideas. It’s _his_ art, yes, but it’s _my_ face, and surely there’s some sort of legal binding if he commercializes this particular piece. If he’s infatuated with me as my friends claim he is, then he will pour every ounce of effort into drawing me, and his devotion will not cease. This will be one of his better drawings, so there is a larger chance that Grantaire will do something with it if he doesn’t treasure it in his apartment.

But I need to stop portraying the person who always rains on other people’s parades when they’ve done nothing truly wrong, and this is just a simple drawing. Especially since I argue with Grantaire whenever we see each other, and we already experienced a massive schism, I should leave him to his fun. But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask about his activities.

Grantaire notices my consciousness but doesn’t pause his drawing session; I don’t expect him to, anyway, as he looks as though he’s submerged in both introspection and — surprisingly — diligence. He mutters a quick hello, and nothing else unless I prompt him.

“When did you wake up?” I inquire. Shaking the crust from my eyes with a vindictive finger ready to kill, I cover my swelling yawn with my other hand.

“Like, five o’clock.” Grantaire is unfazed by his lack of sleep, though he’s the kind of person to invite it into his life heartily, so the eight hours of rest he received was sufficient enough, I suppose. That’s how many the doctors demand that you chug through.

“So you’ve been drawing for three and a half hours?” I push myself up from my awkward position on the couch, almost regretting it, but then I figure that if he’s been here for a while, he’s already marked down the basic outline of my form, and he probably knows how light reacts to it, having studied it for so long.

Now tilting his pencil so that the side of the cone-shaped tip drapes itself against the paper, and filling in something near the corner of the paper, Grantaire shrugs. “More or less.”

“May I see it?”

My one-night roommate doesn’t answer me to instead focus on smudging a patch of graphite with his already blackened finger, so I assume he has tacitly rejected my request. However, he soon turns the paper to me after examining it for a moment, and a simpering glow highlights his cheeks as he anticipates my response.

Although, I’m not sure I can provide him with a _proper_ response quite yet, for I am rendered speechless by the masterpiece Grantaire has drafted. He paid attention to every detail, not once classifying them as either imperative or minute, only merging them all together as equals worthy of being showcased on the finished product. That’s what I like about Grantaire — he includes everything, regardless of how the world would subordinate certain details.

“You hate it, don’t you?” Grantaire asks, his tone indicative of his perception that it was bound to be this way, that I would despise anything he creates, which is quite the opposite, in truth. The reason I shout at him so often is because I see potential in him, and he has found potential even now, through his art. There’s nothing I enjoy more in Grantaire than his manmade spectacles. I could never hate them.

“Grantaire, I…I love them more than I can say,” I counter, my words soaked in the breathiness that regularly accompanies astonishment. “I wish you wouldn’t think so negatively of yourself.”

Grantaire brushes the last part of my comment off, but he is overjoyed at the beginning of it. I, the person over whom he’s been fawning for months upon months, appreciate his work, and told him that his work shouldn’t be degraded. To me, that’s nothing more than what every friend should do, but to him, it means the world. It shouldn’t be such a feat to hear this, but I’m glad he’s ecstatic about it, I suppose.

“Really?” my companion gasps. I bet even Jean Prouvaire could not describe how Grantaire feels in this moment, how saturated by disbelief he is, how ebullient nevertheless. To see a cynic with a smile is to have witnessed a miracle. And then all of the sudden, his cynicism shoves into places where it is unwelcome, and storm clouds swarm over the sun. “You’re probably lying. You don’t appreciate my work.”

Dealing with this man is quite the struggle, as his opinions swing back and forth on a regular basis, yet he’s extremely stubborn about them for the time that they last, leaving everyone utterly confused and utterly useless in helping him, so I have concluded that it is my newfound duty to convince him that he is worth something, that he is worth _everything_.

“I do, Grantaire.”

His voice sets into stone, his eyes following soon after. “Prove it.”

My face swipes any and all emotion from its surface for a moment, just long enough for me to assess how I really feel about Grantaire’s art and about Grantaire himself, and then welcomes a smile as I reach out to the man who is slipping away, cupping his jaw with a hand as smooth as porcelain.

Grantaire is not the echelon of conventional attractiveness. Most people would turn aside from the scratchy stubble upon which my hand falls in this moment, from the wild mess of raven thatched onto his head, from the shadows of deprivation ringing his lids, completely ignoring how brightly his eyes twinkle despite all of the hardships he’s endured. However, Jehan Prouvaire has taught me to derive wonder from everything I encounter, and over time I have come to understand that, while Grantaire may not be model material, he is one of the most magnificent men I have ever met. His willful character outshines his physical faults.

Though I admire Grantaire for that willful character, it seems he has morphed into a puppy as I hold him. It is unfortunate that he is so afraid in the presence of someone who only wants to be his friend, his equal. With a reassuring nod, I dispel his fright the best I can, and my companion settles into a calmer state of proportioned breathing and mollified muscles. It is a comforting sensation to see him adopt the wings of a butterfly.

I had never believed what teenage romance novels said about the world halting to instead serve what then seemed like the only two people in the world, but perhaps it’s not such a false description. The friendly hum of the air condition retreats into solitude elsewhere. The chirping of morning birds outside ceases as if in death. The world is at our command.

If the world is at our feet, then it will not allow me to be shackled by fear. I shall not overanalyze everything as I have been doing. I shall act solely upon impulse, and see where it takes me. I shall live on the edge, and in Grantaire’s heart.

With the speed of a lake uninhabited, and the gentleness of a bird in flight, our lips ease into each other to enact something we thought would never transpire, but this is sweet spontaneity, and this is life. We are paint of two varying shades, mixing together to form a color whose finesse the world has never before witnessed. We are moisture slipping over hands as they attempt to catch a falling object, snatching the fluidity of cream rubbing against itself.

Everything is perfect. Neither of us hold any qualms against each other, nor this action. We work together, like gears supporting the spoke next in line, only to be supported itself. We are at peace with each other, until a shudder rumbles through Grantaire, and he retracts like he’s just had an epiphany of gigantic proportions.

“Are you okay?” I ask, ultimately perplexed as to why he pulled himself away when he indicated that he was enjoying our connection.

Grantaire nods, albeit much too frantically for someone who has finally achieved what they’ve spent months working towards, and all he’s doing is leaving me confounded. His motions represent a panic attack, though I know not what for, and if he’ll tell me. “It’s just…we were fighting only two days ago, and now we’re…we’re…all _intimate_ and stuff. You’re disorganizing me, Enjolras.”

I can understand his concern, but I cannot understand its origin. Grantaire isn’t an analytical man. He wouldn’t usually care if something like this happened, notably since he has been wishing that this would happen for as long as he’s known me, so why does he care now? Yeah, I recognize that he was devastated by our argument, and that, I suppose, is a considerable reason for being hesitant, but everything is so convoluted that I can’t decide what’s real and what isn’t.

“I’m doing this new thing called living in the moment,” I explain. “I’ve started thinking about my emotions instead of shoving them all aside in favor of my love for liberty, and I’ve also started thinking that we could work. We could help each other, a symbiotic agreement, if you will.”

Grantaire is skeptical (but when isn’t he?), contemplating his options and their outcomes. He is not a pensive person, I’ve noticed, but he cares deeply about this subject, deeply enough to spend a while pondering it. It’s not something I take lightly. I’m incredibly thankful that he views me in such a respectful way.

It looks as though he’ll be considering this topic for a long time, so I rise to start preparing breakfast so that he can weigh the circumstances without me staring heavily at him, because now I’m thoroughly invested in what Grantaire and I can do for each other, and his decision will mean a lot to me. However, before I can step even an inch to the left, Grantaire drives his lips into mine, much more passionately than our first kiss.

He devours me as if he hasn’t eaten in a millennium (scanty fruit cups can have that effect on you), as if he’s been living in a barren wasteland of melancholy and desolation. He’s hungry beyond compare, and he seeks to claim his prize for his own, to hide it from anyone else, by pinning me against the sofa and hovering over me with no intentions of allowing me to escape.

“This is your answer, I see?” I joke, admitting a slight chuckle into the air.

I detect a smirk stretching across our interlocked canvases, and Grantaire replies, “You know it, golden boy.”

Combeferre is going to be in for quite the surprise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: there was barely anything leading up to this but this whole fanfiction is so confusing idk
> 
> my authors notes are getting so shitty
> 
> ~Dakrappy-author


	11. the outernet is scary

****Combeferre's POV** **

“I cannot _believe_ what I’m having to deal with right now.”

Courfeyrac — who has been strolling merrily along beside me for the past few minutes after picking me up at my apartment unexpectedly for some fresh air and a study break, which I should thank him for later — suddenly stops and turns to me, a smirk of intrigue flavoring his expression. “Tell me. You know how I’m thirsty for drama.”

Well, he’s not wrong. Courfeyrac doesn’t enjoy engaging in drama of his own, but he enjoys observing as it goes down and brings an entire friend group down with it. He’s a bit malicious that way, but there are worse forms of schadenfreude than his, so I excuse it. Besides, he’s always the one with the most interesting stories to share at meetings, when we’re supposed to be working on studying or charity work, and our friends all appreciate his company. Courfeyrac, however, appreciates the company of total strangers often as well, and that’s how he obtains such fascinating tales that may or may not even be true, but with the complexity of where Courfeyrac spends his weekends and the people who live in the parts where he spends his weekends, I doubt that he’s leaving a lot up to improvisation.

“Enjolras and Grantaire are being absolute pussies,” I groan, and Courfeyrac drinks this all in with excited nods and a half-agape mouth.

“Give me something new. Drama regarding Enjolras and Grantaire is my favorite variety of drama,” Courfeyrac confesses, which isn’t much of a secret. “You’re like my homoerotic drug dealer.”

Ignoring the fact that I was just compared to a drug dealer whose specialty is telling tales of two men’s wild romantic lives, I continue ranting about how my friends can’t fix their own fucking existences and just get along with each other for more than two minutes. “They had this fight two days ago.”

“Aren’t they always fighting?” Courfeyrac has a point, and an intelligent one at that. He is about as clueless as I was when Enjolras dashed up to me and swung his arms around my neck as he tried to explain that he encountered yet another roadblock with Grantaire of the same kind (though, as the conversation progressed, I realized that it wasn’t the same kind at all, and that he had wrecked his friendship because of it), but Courfeyrac can figure things out on his own. He’s some sort of drama archaeologist. He should be hired for a position in journalism, if I’m being honest, but I think he does a bit of that on his own when he thinks his roommate, Marius, can’t see.

I shrug, as if trying to explain the alphabet to a dog who understands nothing of English; it’s a simple concept, but it’s not suited to him. “Well, yeah, but this one was different.”

“How could it possibly be different? Grantaire says something sarcastic, and Enjolras flames him. That’s that.”

“Can you please let me tell my story, you obnoxious fungal infection?” I jest, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, but it’s clear that he’s reserving himself to the role of a listener as he picks up his pace beside me, and we’re walking again.

He picked a beautiful day to take a walk with me in the park — I’ll give him that. The sun is glimmering deep into the socket of a sky as blue as the Caribbean waters, and the atmosphere is lively because of it. People stroll along in all directions, soaking up the positive energy and the ultraviolet rays, the joy of wandering without a desire to become lost. I am surprisingly grateful that I was snatched from my studies of physics to join Courfeyrac (who is also procrastinating on his school work; I can predict him calling me at ten o’clock to ask if I can tutor him because physics is too difficult), as we haven’t been hanging out all that much, having just received new material after lengthy exams, and being thoroughly busy struggling to retain it, so this, I feel, is a well-earned reprieve, both from homework and from the drama of my two bickering friends, drama that Courfeyrac is urging me to share. I need a good rant.

“So, as I was saying” — a flash of fear waltzes over Courfeyrac’s face, having been subtlety insulted for talking so much — “Grantaire broke down during the fight, and told Enjolras that he loves him, then storming out of Enj’s apartment promptly afterwards.”

Courfeyrac mouths a quick “damn”, eyes puckered in astonishment. This is more drama than he can handle, and it’s apparently just so juicy, as he would so eloquently phrase it. He craves more, despite broadcasting obviously that he’s had his share of drama for a whole week. Grantaire confessing his love to Enjolras is what we’ve all been waiting for, for months and months, basically since they’ve known each other. After all of our meetings, when we’re filing out of the Musain or the Corinth or someone’s apartment, we always murmur about our opinions of Enjolras and Grantaire. It’s probably a bit unhealthy for us to be obsessing over people whose relationship doesn’t even concern us, but we do it anyway, because it gets people to show up to the meetings, and through all of this hype, everyone is wholly invested in their affairs, especially Courfeyrac.

It’s kind of surprising that Courfeyrac is so avid about Enjolras and Grantaire finally getting together, because the only partners he’s ever had are just casual flings with little to no romantic attraction. He’s just in it for the physicality, and he’s usually single by the one week anniversary, so to see him absorbed in believing that his two friends are soulmates is astonishing to us all, but he’s here nevertheless, holding onto my every word as if it’s a goldmine.

“How did Enjolras reply to knowing that Grantaire has the hots for him?” Courfeyrac wonders.

“He should’ve realized before, because everyone else did, but he didn’t until Grantaire told him, so he was nothing less than shocked. Grantaire was out the door before Enjolras could respond, though, and Enjolras hasn’t talked about it since then, so I’m not really sure.”

Disappointment pricks Courfeyrac’s youthful face, but it’s not too heavy of a dosage that it’s permanent or significant. He’s struck diamonds with this new information I’ve given him, so I think he’s content with what he received. However, it’s intolerable to see gloom in any quantity upon a person who’s always cheerful, so I wrap up my story with something that will surely rev him up.

“But things could’ve changed since yesterday,” I allow, wriggling a bit of optimistic opportunity into Courfeyrac’s mood.

My companion is immediately engaged, all despair swiped from his face. “What do you mean? I thought they would try to avoid each other once it’s no longer obligatory for them to speak.”

I should give Courfeyrac more credit. He’s actually pretty intuitive, but he squanders it on partying and blowing off studies, so no one ever notices except me, who’s just as intuitive as he is. But some heroes fly under the radar, and some of them hide their abilities until they’re required to utilize them so that they can amaze people who thought poorly of someone with so much potential.

“I forced them to spend the night together in Enjolras’ apartment, while I chilled with Jehan.” I seal my eyes to Courfeyrac’s, arresting his focus so that he understands just how serious I’m being. “I was very rigorous about this. I even walked them home.”

“You’re a national treasure, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac laughs, nudging me as a result of his intentional imbalance, and I seize the chance to swaddle him in an unexpected embrace. Courfeyrac stiffens from the random disturbance, but it’s only because he had not anticipated such a gesture from someone as isolated as I am, not because he’s uncomfortable. In reality, he seems quite cozy in my arms, and though he has no idea why I’m hugging him (and frankly neither do I), he has found a home in it.

“Thanks for bringing me out here, Courf,” I whisper into his thick bundle of hickory locks, and my friend nods. I then unchain him from my limbs, and a latent slice of hurt blankets his face, but when he sees that I’m watching him, he produces a smile, and we continue our promenade through the park as if I didn’t witness that pessimistic nuance in his mood.

“So, now that we’re on the topic of relationships,” I start, glancing over to my friend to see his initial reaction, which is a hidden confliction of fear and ecstasy, “do you have your sights on anyone?”

This is a stupid question to ask, but Enjolras and Grantaire have made me stupid with their incessant nagging, so there’s not much I can do about my selection of phrases. But, however illogical my question is, I’m enticed by the answer to it. As we all know, Courfeyrac is prone to week-long affairs with no real substance to them, but that doesn’t mean he is disinterested in them. He could just be unfortunate in the field of reciprocation, and has kept his mouth shut for all this time. Or he could be dating someone he intends to cover so that none of his friends know about him, which is a backhanded thing to do, but it’s Courfeyrac. He can handle a lot, yet I’m still engrossed in his safety and happiness, which means that, even if I won’t admit it, he is capable of crumbling, just as any human is, so I’m asking this question to discover if there are any possible geneses of destruction that could be resolved or revised until they are dormant.

Maybe I’m just scouring for future competition. Who knows? I’m not sure if I like Courfeyrac yet. Our personalities would clash, with my diplomatic one and his spirited, spontaneous one. We go about solving things differently, so if we argued, we would progress nowhere. So that’s why I phrased it as _future_ competition, because I’m not certain in the slightest how I feel about this lovable ball of spunk. My ambivalence doesn’t dictate that I can’t be attentive to the answer to my question.

“I’m not sure if I like anyone,” Courfeyrac admits, but the presentation of his words suggests that he’s either lying or disconcerted, though it seems like both, so he rapidly diverts the topic. “What about you?”

“Don’t make this about me,” I reprimand him light-heartedly, with acting skills way more profound than his, only to scoot the attention off of my chest because I haven’t made up my mind yet, and even if I do like Courfeyrac, I probably wouldn’t say anything, as it’s an arduous task to reveal something so personal in a laidback discussion like this.

“That’s not fair! I gave you _my_ answer!” Somehow when Courfeyrac uses childish phrases like these, he doesn’t sound as annoying as a child would, and he leaves me to wonder how, because he certainly has the personality of a child. People keep him around because of his ability to transmute simple questions that would regularly seem peevish into relaxed inquiries, and they’re tricked into believing that he isn’t an overly moist cabbage. I may have fallen for it, too, but I’m also falling for Courfeyrac as a person, so it’s just part of the package.

“You’re such a nub, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac complains, with an added punch to the shoulder that hurts a tad too much to be completely friendly. “But you’re also cavalier, so it was pointless to ask if you like anyone.”

“Ouch,” I say, but it’s bouncy enough to convince Courfeyrac that his comment didn’t actually affect me as deeply as it did. Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m too cold to love anyone?

Now cognizant of his mistake, Courfeyrac tries to play it off. “Don’t worry about it, ‘Ferre.”

If only.

Two can play at that game, though, so I try to play it off as well. I grab Courfeyrac’s hand and spin him around as if he’s my female dance partner, which extracts a giggle from him, and that giggle is enough to brighten my mood. A smile purgatories my face, a smile dedicated to my friend. “No offense taken.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have yet to find a Courferre fanfic I want to read so I'm improvising
> 
> I keep forgetting to put the POV indicators at the front so I save it and then have to go back rip me
> 
> ~Dakotoreo


	12. got eem

****Jehan's POV** **

“’Parnasse, this is wonderful!” I exclaim, and it’s not a lie, nor a notion hyperbolized by a poet. It truly is beautiful, what my new friend has done for me.

I woke up this morning, and Combeferre was gone, but in his place there was a text from Montparnasse that asked me if I would like to meet him in the park at one o’clock for a surprise. I was ecstatic to hang out with Montparnasse and to see what the surprise was, and this is it: a picnic, whose beauty I have never before seen in something as mundane as packed lunch. It isn’t so much the food that captivates me (though the food shouldn’t be degraded at all). It’s more like the presentation and the thought that added to it. Montparnasse has spread out the traditional crimson checkered picnic blanket across the tender grass of the park, and it was only until I sat down upon it that I realized it’s fleece, too — he knows me so well. He has selected a wicker basket to store the lunch provisions, a product of the classical tastes and of the ways humans can supplement ordinary things with unimaginable magnificence, and that is how this basket was constructed. Inside of that basket, there is what looks like homemade mac and cheese (which I appreciate more than I can tell; it’s always a good sign when your date prepares something of his own instead of slacking it on store-bought items), as well as assorted fruits packed in plastic bags based on species. The utensils and paper supplies have already been distributed across the blanket, placed there with a meticulous view, so it seems that Montparnasse has thought of it all, and here he stands with the widest smile I’ve ever seen, with the knowledge that I love what he’s done.

“You really like it?”

“I love it!” I loop my arms around his neck and practically jump onto him — he stumbles for a moment but regains his balance quickly so that he can stabilize me and my heighted elevation — thankful for all that he’s prepared for me. From my position close to him, I catch his comforting scent of lavender swirling around my head, and I breathe it in like the rhythm of a song, natural and flowing smoothly to each note and each second. I could stay here forever, but Montparnasse is setting me down gently onto the picnic blanket so that we can actually enjoy the treat he’s arranged.

To think he did this for _me_!

“I hope all of these things are foods that you like,” Montparnasse says, already doubtful of something that couldn’t be more perfect, just like him.

“Oh, yes, of course!” I broaden my already broad smile to convey to him that I am completely enamored by this bountiful feast. “Everything is so amazing, Montparnasse. Thank you, truly.”

Bashfulness rouges the slender cheeks of my companion, and he glances down at his lap, something I didn’t think a person like him would do, but I suppose he’s just flustered by my presence. I wish he weren’t, and while the action of blushing is annoying and invasive to the person experiencing it, it’s always a good sign that they’re interested in you, so I reach across the spread of dishes to slip a hand around his cheek to let him know that it’s okay to be a bit embarrassed, but his cheeks only flame more.

“Anyway.” Montparnasse clears his throat in an attempt to recover from that odd exchange of heat and intimacy, or else he’ll fully succumb to a face full of fire, and he procures the food from the masterfully created wicker basket, unsealing each plastic bag, and freeing the mac and cheese from the plastic wrap that covered the pot in which it rests. He scoops some food from every area onto my plate and then onto his, the courteous gentleman that he is, and he is content. He can begin a conversation with me now that he has assembled everything, released from his the minor stress that ordering a date induces.

“You look lovely,” Montparnasse compliments me, and I can’t discern whether or not he’s being genuine, as all of my friends have informed me on countless occasions that I have no idea how to dress (I think I look fine, but that’s probably because I’ve grown accustomed to my spontaneous outlook on life, how I believe that everything in the universe fits together), and Montparnasse is a man of superior fashion himself, but sometimes you can overlook the faults of people when you like them, instead regarding them as cute or attractive, so that may be Montparnasse’s stance. Nevertheless, I don’t think a shirt that almost falls off my shoulders and a pair of Capri shorts are anything of note, and might even strain from a point of neutrality as an abhorrent sight, but compliments are meant to be accepted, so I murmur a gentle thank you, as well as remind Montparnasse that he always looks lovely, and drop the subject.

“How has your day been?” I inquire. I wish we could move past small talk, because Montparnasse seems like a very intriguing person, but I honestly have no fucking clue what to say to this god. He doesn’t seem to mind, though.

Montparnasse expels a labored breath, indicative of the burden he must have experienced before he journeyed here for this date, and I can only assume that his day was not all that great, but it’s somewhat comforting knowing that his previous hardships of the last thirteen hours make this date the highlight of his day. “Eponine decided that she would steal another one of my sweatshirts. It’s not like I use them, anyway, but the problem is that she thinks they’re a substitute for pants, too, which they’re really not, so I had to spend the morning with a half-naked thief shouting at me about her favorite television programs.”

I almost snort, but I catch the sensation in my throat before it can escape, a close encounter I barely avoided. “So you had a fantastic day, then?”

“An absolutely magnificent day.” Montparnasse winks, then cascading into a fit of giggles, and I follow close behind. When he survives the laughter, he adds, “Eponine is quite the treat.”

I roll my eyes, fitting with some of my new friend’s mannerisms. “I’m sure. Whereas _my_ roommate just had a fight with the love of his life, who barely acknowledges him beyond his criticisms, and I have no idea how he’s doing with that, so I’m worked up over that.”

“All three of you should get a massage together,” Montparnasse jests, portraying a tone of that bitchy friend who, every day, mourns the loss of any fucks they could’ve given. It suits him all too well, and I can predict that he is someone’s bitchy friend, most likely Eponine’s after all she’s done to provoke him.

Now that I think about it, however, he may have been bitchy, but he is also kind of helpful. “That’s not actually a bad idea,” I admit.

Pantomiming an act of politeness, Montparnasse tips an imaginary hat. “I know what I’m talking about.”

Without any prior warning, a swarm of gnats buzzes around my head, a sphere of peevishness encircling me, assailing me from all directions and at all points upon my face, and I do my best to fend myself against them without interrupting Montparnasse’s good time, as he doesn’t need to be concerned with what I can handle quietly.

However, Montparnasse is bound to notice, and he does. “Are the gnats bothering you?” Montparnasse asks, and immediately I pretend like I’m fine, in case he’s annoyed by my constant swatting motions when we’re supposed to be enjoying a wholesome meal together. “We can go back to my apartment and watch a movie, if you’d prefer that to the heat and bugs.”

I debate this for a moment, and then almost reprimand myself for being so rude by thinking that I can invite myself into Montparnasse’s apartment. My mouth swerves into a crooked line. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes playfully, and contradicts, “You’re adorable, and you’re not imposing. You’re welcome at any time.”

Still unsure, I hesitantly agree. “Okay…but are you sure?”

“Oh my god, Jehan. We’re going.” Montparnasse is having a field day with how ambivalent I am, but it’s not like I can help it. I extend my hand to him, and he hoists me onto my feet so that we can walk back to his apartment together and escape the gnats.

Now I’m just worried that if something happens at his apartment, I’ll have pesky bugs to blame for my relationship’s success.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: when two of your favorite characters have a budding relationship
> 
> wow what a grand old time we're having here
> 
> ~Dakankle


	13. move I'm gay

****Jehan's POV** **

For someone as clean-cut as Montparnasse, his apartment sure as hell is messy. Clothing is strewn everywhere, not even arranged in piles, just a thin spread of fabric across the entirety of the house, an obstacle course for Montparnasse to overcome every time he wants to simply move around his living quarters. Gadgets and trinkets have been left out with no hope of ever being returned until my new friend embarks on his clean sweep journey of the day, but judging from the exasperated expression souring his face, I can detect that he already completed that, and the place was trashed in his absence in the park. I assume that most of this can be attributed to the infamous roommate, as Montparnasse elucidated that she lives to annoy him (yet he hasn’t moved out yet, but that’s none of my business), and with each second, I grow to fear her more and more. If Montparnasse is her best friend, and she treats him like this, I can’t imagine what she’ll do to me, a presumed intruder upon someone she knows well.

Maybe this is just what Eponine wants: for me to be scared of her, for _everyone_ to be scared of her. That spunky personality of hers is evidence that she seeks enough power over people that they won’t mess with her, but perhaps she does not revel in her evil as other modern villains would. Who knows — I might come to trust her, in time.

“Sorry, this apartment looks like a wreck,” Montparnasse apologizes while sorting through everything that Eponine’s heaped everywhere, but I assure him that it’s fine, and that I know he isn’t responsible for it. It’s his roommate who’s a walking warzone.

A young woman of about nineteen years emerges from the bedroom down the hall, making her way through the corridor and into the kitchen, where Montparnasse and I wait as he tries to tidy things up a bit after Eponine’s daily storm. I can easily guess that this young woman is the locally renowned and aforementioned Eponine, for many reasons, including the pointing sign of her use of an oversized sweatshirt that doesn’t quite cover everything, about which Montparnasse told me in the park, and from the sincere hope that she is the only woman who would be here anyway.

She’s a few inches shorter than her roommate, leveling up to me in the range of average height, but that detail is subordinate once her certainty of character is noticed. They share the shadowy tresses that I do not, except hers are a tad mitigated in darkness, a tone that rests upon the title of hickory, a cascading river halfway down her back. While both new acquaintances possess flawless skin, the young woman’s is an elegant tan of Polynesia that compliments the walnut of her eyes so well that it’s difficult not to note upon it. The foliage of her brow springs flowers crafted of chocolate and carved into daggers, ready to kill. Her lips burst with the blood of a thousand berries picked from the tree of youth, supple yet hungry to taste the folds of existence. A bed of lashes notches her lids as they strain to reach as far outward as possible, and to bat them is to whirl a tornado. Her body is slender, but it retains the agility of a cat and the poise of an owl, and all at the same time. Gentle mountains are her shoulders and hips, caresses of Arabian deserts gilded in summer. She is not loud, yet her voice is clearly heard. A mystery, she is. It would be a lie to say that she is not just as beautiful as her roommate, and a lie to say that she is not aware of it. Because of this, she carries herself in a fashion that suggests she owns herself entirely, and even if she is affiliated with a partner, she does not relinquish herself to that person. She is stunning in her confidence, in her carelessness. She monopolizes spontaneity as an art. She remains every bit as whole as the world made her. It seems as though the universe bows civilly before her feet but doesn’t dare to touch her sturdy ankles. There is a particular simplicity to her that I enjoy — she needs not decadent ball gowns to express the capitalism of her spirit; Aphrodite already envies her for showcasing beauty in a luffing sweatshirt and legs nude with the same surety as if they were clothed. Were it not for my lack of writing utensils, I would pen her as a goddess, nothing more and nothing less. Would it be truly fair to say she is not?

The angel snares my eye, fascinated already with my presence here, and her pace quickens to approach me. “Why, ‘Parnasse, who is this?” She does not look over at the person whom she is addressing, instead examining every feature of my face like I silently did to her. She is intrigued, mirroring the inherent ferocity of a tiger equipped to pounce when she is hedonistically disposed.

Montparnasse detects the way which she observes me, as if I am her prey, and discomfort swells in his chest. “Eponine, this is Jehan Prouvaire.”

Eponine elevates a teasing brow, inadvertently accentuating its sharp angle. “Is he your new boy toy?”

“ _Eponine_ ,” Montparnasse snaps, partially under his breath and partially loud enough so that his roommate gets the message, flicking a quick glance over at me to see if I’m offended by her crude language.

I’m mostly fine, but there is one part of me, a part I thought I abandoned once I decided to invite Montparnasse over to meet my friends, that reawakens with Eponine’s comment. At first, I was hesitant about Montparnasse’s motives for approaching me after I read my poem on open mic night at the Musain, but I rapidly quelled those apprehensions to give him the benefit of the doubt. I shouldn’t be persuaded otherwise by a meaningless comment from a sardonic roommate.

However, Eponine knows Montparnasse better than I do. She’s his fucking roommate, for crying out loud. Living with someone unearths details you may or may not have wanted to unearth, but they are nevertheless absorbed. If Montparnasse is only engrossed in triviality, she would know, and her recent comment may be an indication of that knowledge. I don’t want to be someone’s seasonal lover, just to be dumped for someone else, or to be used solely for my appearance, something as superficial as that. I believe in love, not in exploit. It would be a curse to see myself fall into its trap. Both hurt like hell, but the former is not nearly as painful as the latter. I’m not someone’s boy toy, and if I am, then I need to get the fuck out of the relationship before I dig my own grave. I like Montparnasse — I really do — and I had prayed that I would be more than a casualty to his attractiveness.

But I could be wrong. I can decrypt that Eponine is almost as cynical as Grantaire, whose identity screams of pessimism, and I’ve only known her for a few minutes. She could be jesting, as she loves to get on Montparnasse’s nerves, and she may be trying to get on _my_ nerves, too. The smell of new blood is repugnant to her. I decide to believe this side of the account.

“Have you used any pick-up lines on him?” Eponine asks, discovering a half-eaten bag of chips lounging on the kitchen counter, which she immediately resumes eating, back turned to us.

I instead answer the question meant for Montparnasse, mostly to participate in a conversation so that Eponine doesn’t urge her roommate to dump my shy ass. “He was a gentleman to me from the moment we met.” A smile lacquers my mouth, and Montparnasse copies it.

Eponine wheels around, tying up a brow and widening her mouth in a gasp. “Ooh, _damn_ , ‘Parnasse. Really gettin’ in there, huh?”

“Okay, sure, Eponine.”

“Since you obviously failed your relationship by not taking the opportunity to unleash a pickup line, why don’t we have a battle now?” Eponine is clearly enticed by this plan, but Montparnasse is not.

“That’s absurd.”

“Life is absurd!” Eponine exclaims in a surprisingly accurate mimicry of pretentiousness, launching her arms into the air above. “You’re just scared I’m going to steal your man.”

“Considering your state, I don’t think that’s possible,” my friend mutters. It’s obvious that he’s trying his best to resolve this conflict without raising his voice much, without selling himself to peevishness, because that’s only what Eponine seeks of him.

“Then you should have no problem competing with me.” Eponine clicks her arms across her chest, having backed her roommate up into a corner, awaiting his surrender. “Just for laughs,” she adds, almost like a sarcastic promise.

Montparnasse offers me a tacit waiver, wordlessly asking if I agree to what Eponine has proposed. I supply an enthusiastic nod, actually interested in where this will go. I happen to enjoy pickup lines, especially when they’re as cheesy as they can get. Yes, I despise when people use them on me in a serious manner, with the intentions of getting laid that night, but this is just a friendly game that I will willingly accept to. Eponine is satisfied with my answer.

I have one request, however. “If you’re going to do this, at least make them cheesy.”

“Oh, honey, cheesy is how I win,” Eponine informs me while cracking every individual knuckle as if she’s prepping for a physical fight instead of a silly brawl of who can embarrass themselves the most.

Montparnasse looks passionless about doing this, but Eponine won’t leave him alone until he does, so it’s his only choice to partake in this flippant affair. I hope he does me justice, for all of our sakes. I doubt Eponine would really be interested in dating me, so Montparnasse better win.

“Hey, hun bun,” Eponine starts, pantomiming her leaning on an invisible counter like a creepy guy approaching a girl at a bar — I’m already cringing. “Are you trash? Cause I’m gonna pick you up. Keep the planet safe.”

“Oh, what a shame!” Montparnasse jests. “You done snatched my man. Now Jehan will never like me!” My friend drapes a hand across his forehead dramatically, steadying himself on the kitchen table as he pretends to faint.

“It’s not _my_ fault your dick’s so small that it needs a choking hazard label,” Eponine quips as a rebuttal to Montparnasse’s criticism, and this knocks a horrified gasp out of me.

“You don’t know me,” Montparnasse fires back just as hastily, and prepares for his turn at winning my heart. “Are you a toe? Cause you keep me balanced.”

“Says the guy who sleeps on the couch and wakes up on the floor.” Is a clap-back absolutely necessary to everything Montparnasse says, or is it just her way of coping with defeat?

“Oh my _god_ , Eponine, let me live,” my friend groans, rolling his eyes, then coating his visage in a blindingly white smile, a barrier of pearl within rosy lips who shout of joy.

“I obviously won, but you can keep your man.” Eponine balances on her toes (admittedly, with the strength of a ballerina) to accommodate for the difference in height, and nips lasciviously the bulb of her roommate’s nose, and then spins away and stalks back down the hall to resume the activity in which she had been engaged before I visited the apartment, which most likely involves ruining Montparnasse’s life once again.

Shepherding eyes the texture of fleece, I address Montparnasse face to face, standing directly across from him to produce an honest stance as I ask the stupidest question in humanity, but my anxiety does not squabble over classification, and prompts me to inquire about such frivolous matters. “Do you like Eponine?”

Montparnasse interprets this as an odd question, which is exactly what it is, but he can decode how much its answer means to me, so he provides it. “Yeah, of course. She’s my best friend.”

What a cliché thing to say. I feel as though I’m experiencing life by the command of a teenage romance movie script, and am growing quite tired of it. I am forced to elaborate after that shell of a narrative has fucked me once again. “But do you…you know… _like_ Eponine?”

Montparnasse looks at me as if I’m speaking complete gibberish, dumbfounded as to how I formed such a question. “No, not in that way, which is fortunate, because she’s dating Cosette, that cute blonde bartender at the Musain.”

Cosette? She never told me about Eponine, and we’re practically best friends! I would’ve never suspected it, either, as their personalities are so contrasting. Yes, opposites attract, but those two are opposites that would attract far enough that they crash into each other. They clash. The sweet flower does not cry for the rotten apple. Eponine could perhaps be a pesticide to Cosette, however — her intentions are ones of protection, but her course of action might be flawed. Maybe Eponine acts differently around Cosette, fabricates a personality because she is invested in the young bartender. Sometimes that’s how it goes when it’s merely a crush you’re harvesting, but in order to truly love someone, and to be loved by someone, you have to reveal who you truly are, and who Eponine is would repel fragile souls such as Cosette Fauchelevent. On the contrary, I love Cosette as if she were the sister I never had, so if Eponine makes her happier than she already is, it’s not really my place to argue it.

“I only have eyes for you, my darling Jehan,” Montparnasse assures me, which would be more than enough for most people, but I’m still uncertain after what Eponine said about me being a boy toy.

“We’ll see how you feel about me by the end of the week,” I snarl, so quietly that it subtly reveals that I don’t want my remark to be heard, because other people don’t deserve to be harmed by its repercussions, but I nevertheless say it, as it’s an integral part of my ambivalence towards this budding relationship.

More confounded than ever, Montparnasse’s brows string taut together, and he scoops my cheek in his hand to behold me frankly. “Jehan, what are you talking about?”

“Eponine said I’m just your boy toy.”

“Don’t listen to her,” he directs, but it is still inadequate for my thirsting soul. Montparnasse could present me with the entire Atlantic Ocean, and I would reject it because there’s already enough salt in me.

“But she—”

I can speak no longer, as all of the sudden, the muffler of Montparnasse’s lips cushions the frantic rambling of mine, and the gap between us is nothing more than an irrelevant memory. He is tender in his actions, returning a fallen bird to its nest in the swinging canopies of a dogwood. The fog of mellow breath reclines within my pores, soaking up the heated intimacy and how close they are to another person. My partner does not ask anything of me. He is not hungry; he is full from what he already has. It is obvious that he truly cares about my perception of safety when I’m with him, kneading out the stress from me every time I flinch, then mollifying the kiss for a few seconds so that I have ample time to compose myself. Fingers as mild as feathers brush lightly against my waist, and I weave my own fingers down Montparnasse’s neck and into his luscious rows of ebony, extracting a chirp so faint that it would not be detected if I weren’t so near to him. His mouth is a set of two polished gears, grinding ever so gently against my own, whirring to power the machine of my understanding whose mission is to convince me that Montparnasse is devoted to the man before him, and the man alone, and I am sure of my feelings now. My hesitance has evaporated into nothing.

“Do you believe me now?” Montparnasse asks, employing a devilish stare to usher the response out of me, as I’m too stunned to reply verbally.

I’ve never been more avid about anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: all jokes aside, eponine is actually amazing
> 
> and the otp just got together omg I'm crying
> 
> ~Dacankle


	14. #NightsWithFra

****Combeferre's POV** **

While I should’ve been studying, I was instead staring at the page my teachers would like me to read instead of just observe, lost in a pit of thoughts about my obnoxious friend Courfeyrac. Studying is boring, anyway, and Courfeyrac happens to be the farthest thing from boring I know, so it’s more of a good time to be pondering him than fucking mathematics. I think anyone would agree. And despite barely studying at all after thinking about this charming ball of fluff, I’m extremely tired of it, so when Joly informed me that Courfeyrac has been sick and needs someone to take care of him, brew him some tea, and complete all of the common activities performed for the ill, I was absolutely ecstatic to both relieve myself of intellectual obligations, and visit my best friend, who has been on my mind much more than he was two days ago.

I’m still unsure of how I feel about him, considering he’s been nothing more than a friend for years upon years, and I had never doubted that notion until now, but it’s a requisite to declare that I lean more towards the side of crushing than to the side of the friend zone, which I should interpret as a sign that I do, in fact, like him, but I’m an analytical person, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions, and end up ruining my longest lasting friendship because of it. Besides, I don’t even know if Courfeyrac likes me back, so I’m staying silent for now. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t be joyous about receiving the opportunity to aid him in his time of need.

When I arrive at his apartment, a place not too far from my own — all of our friends live near each other so that the commute to the Corinth, the Musain, and other meeting places is relatively easy — I find the place trashed by used tissues and food wrappers. I refrain from disposing of the tissues, but I ensure that the wrappers end up in the garbage can before I begin my search for my sick friend.

The search isn’t nearly as prolonged or difficult as I thought it would be — I had assumed, on my way here, that I would be required to venture into the swamp that Courfeyrac calls a room, but apparently not. He’s instead curled up cozily on the couch like a puppy, a blanket settled over his tightly compacted shoulders. If I didn’t truly know his age, I would say that he could pass as a small child of about eight years old.

Courfeyrac isn’t one to sleep out of the schedule of night, so to see him here renders me a tad confused. I had expected to be talking with him until he doesn’t feel so bad about being sick, because he would have a friend with him, but now that I’m witnessing his repose, I realize that is not the case, and for a lack of better things to do, I just stare at him like a creepy old man. Soon, though, I figure that I can.

I push my glasses farther up my nose in an act of anxiety from catching myself watching my best friend sleep (I don’t think I can explain that to people without portraying myself as a pervert of some kind), and relocate into the kitchen to prepare Courfeyrac a drink. Though it would be very beneficial for him to drink it, he has expressed to me his acrimony towards tea, thinking it to be for the English bourgeoisie and pretentious art students — I didn’t want to debate him about it, as his reasoning for things is so convoluted that none of it makes any sense, even after an explanation — so I root through his cabinets for something else, praying that his roommate, Marius, won’t notice if I accidentally steal something of his.

Eventually, I stumble across four packets of hot chocolate. If I remember correctly, this is Courfeyrac’s favorite drink. I should’ve predicted that he would stock his favorite drink in his own goddamn apartment, but here we are. I select two of the four packets so that we can share an intimate moment of hot beverages reminiscent of lovers in the autumn weather, or however social media blogs represent them, and flip the packet to read the instructions.

Contrary to Courfeyrac’s opinion, I happen to enjoy tea more than I enjoy hot chocolate, so I find myself drinking the former instead of the latter on most occasions, meaning I only have a vague idea of how hot chocolate is prepared, and I’d rather not somehow poison my best friend, so it’s safest to follow the directions. I don’t aspire to become a headline that the elderly will regard as the summary of the millennial generation.

While I wait for the hot chocolate to get fucking nuked in the microwave, I notice my foot tapping upon the floor in intervals of exactly the same size. Every time I try to halt this action, it returns a few seconds later. This game consumes my mind completely, and I dive pretty deep into it, so when the microwave timer blares, it’s more like a fire alarm right next to my ear than a notification.

I remove the two mugs from the hell contraption, then pouring in the cocoa mix, and stirring rapidly with the same spoon for each. I decide to place the spoon into the mug I’ll give to Courfeyrac, because sipping scalding beverages with a utensil is easier than stuffing your mouth with fire, and he, as a sick person, should receive the benefits now that his life has temporarily turned shitty for a couple of days.

Once I make it to the living room, I am reminded of the fact that Courfeyrac is asleep, and can’t talk with me or drink his hot chocolate. If I left him alone for a while, his refreshment would have ample time to cool, but what am I supposed to do for the time being? Pine over him? No, he’s getting the fuck up, whether he likes it or not, but I will at least be gentle.

Careful to place the mugs of hot cocoa on the adjacent coffee table before trying anything, I nudge my friend awake. The action demands three attempts, but after those three, Courfeyrac’s lashes flutter as if a butterfly with a broken wing, and his eyes unearth themselves multiple seconds later.

“’Ferre?” Courfeyrac’s voice is a fog of sleepiness, blocked by the buildup of his ailment, and generally confused as to why I’m in his apartment, sitting in front of him with two identical snowman mugs of hot chocolate as a peace offering or something.

“Joly told me to visit you to help you feel better.”

Courfeyrac nods, adjusting his position to sit upward next to the arm of the chair. “Joly is such a mom.”

That draws a laugh out of me, mostly because of how damn true it is. Joly is always looking out for us, at all times. Now, I’m not shaming him for that, because quite frankly we would be lost without him, but a mom is exactly what he is.

“Join me on the couch, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac orders faintly, having composed himself after his joke faster than I did, and I obey, climbing onto the sofa while allowing adequate space between me and my friend so that I don’t catch his disease, but that plan is expeditiously quelled when Courfeyrac snuggles into my side as if a kitten.

I glance down at him, nothing but peaceful in my embrace, and my heart clenches at the knowledge that he feels completely safe with me, so close to me that he does not reject the idea of cuddling, rather initiates it.

“I hope I don’t get you sick, because I’m not going to let you go anytime soon, so you’ll be breathing in my air for a while,” Courfeyrac comments, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if he’s telling me something entirely unproblematic like “I had a good day today” or “I saw a dog when I was at the park”, not telling me that he’d prefer infecting me to releasing me, but now that I look at it in an edited perspective, Courfeyrac is quite the amazing cuddler, so a few days of runny noses and dry throats won’t hurt me too badly, and I only nod in agreement with him.

“Thank you for coming over.” A smile rejuvenates Courfeyrac’s sickly complexion, clears the dark rings circumscribing his eye sockets, wipes away the pallor as though it were only makeup. “I feel better already.” Courfeyrac briefly uncurls from his position to snatch the blanket, the one that tumbled off of him when he woke up, from the floor, coating us both in its hospitable fleece. Resting his bush of chocolate locks upon my shoulder, closing his eyes in addition, his position is restored.

“That’s what friends are for, right?” In my case, I use friends as a title of neutrality, because even your romantic partners are supposed to be your friends, but it may not be the same to Courfeyrac, and he perhaps thinks that he’s just been friend zoned, which was the opposite of what I intended, but if I tried to fix it, I would also be revealing my ambiguous feelings for him, so I let it be, instead slithering my arm around his waist to let him know that his presence in the friend zone is improbable.

“So while I’ve been suffering, what have you been doing?”

“I’ve been suffering, too, my guy,” I admit, streaming out a sigh of ardor. “Studying really takes an emotional toll on me.”

Courfeyrac removes himself from my shoulder to angle his head and scrunch his eyebrows at me. “I don’t study, and I still get passing grades.”

I reciprocate his gaze while tapping his nose once with my pointer finger, which installs another smile into his façade. “Because you’re amazing, Courf, and you probably have a photographic memory or something.”

Flames scratch at Courfeyrac’s cheeks upon hearing my subtle compliment, but he is aware that the entire comment wasn’t about him being amazing, and he probably wouldn’t enjoy dwelling on something that injects lava into his face, so he focuses on the second half. “I’m going to randomly show up at your house sometime soon, and I will magically ensure that you pass all of your classes.”

Courfeyrac, being as annoying as he is, would most likely distract me more than he would help me, but I appreciate the offer. He could be entertaining, at least. He could spruce up the generally boring activity of studying so that it’s a bit interesting at most, and I wouldn’t feel so poorly disposed towards it while he’s around. Certain people manipulate certain situations. Courfeyrac is one of them.

I roll my eyes. “My hero.”

Courfeyrac pinches my waist, and playfully (plus quite seductively) growls, “C’mon, you know you love me.”

Yeah, more than he can guess, and maybe I’m glad that he can’t guess, because then my latent emotions would be excavated to bring about nothing but trouble. In the time that I’ve spent here, I’ve been struck by the epiphany that I would like to pursue a relationship with this insolent man child, but I’m waiting for Courfeyrac to make the first move. Yeah, I am aware that such a tactic is wasting precious time, especially if the other party is playing the same game, and I am aware that Grantaire would scold me endlessly for this, but who I am as a person has thrown a roadblock in my way.

I am Combeferre, the pragmatic one of the group. I am crushing on Courfeyrac, the opposite of pragmatic. That’s just who we are in our essences. I doubt my best friend would feel enlightened to be dating someone who is constantly reprimanding him for his typical acts of spontaneity, and I doubt _I_ would be enlightened to be dating someone who constantly _needs_ to be reprimanded, because he could fatally injure himself at any point.

But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about the way we are, nor anything I can do about my crush on Courfeyrac. You do not own love. You only rent it out, sleep soundly in its quarters, and get thrown out harshly onto its brittle doorstep once the money you should've used on paying for housing needs has been wasted on the frantic decadence of trying to make permanency out of a rental property. My love for Courfeyrac could ruin us both, but maybe I need a little ruin in my life. Maybe lachesism is scarily appealing to a man who has only lived three meters from the edge.

However, since I am so inexperienced with living on the edge, telling Courfeyrac about my emotions is a foul zone. Besides, he’s not a very sincere person, and if I dropped such a bomb upon him, he would most likely laugh at me.

So I play my affection off as a joke, for jokes are what Courfeyrac likes. “Wow, your condition is worse than I thought.”

Courfeyrac has other plans than to allow me to succeed with deceiving him, so he suits up for his new character: a tease. His breath swarms around my neck as he nips my ear only once, toying with me, and just as close to me he purrs, “You’re despicable, Combeferre,” with extra emphasis on “despicable”.

A bit too much blood rushes where it shouldn’t, so I change the subject before things get out of hand. “Your hot chocolate is running cold,” I notify my friend, who is immediately extinguished by my flatness.

Courfeyrac isn’t one to listen to orders, but he astonishingly seizes his mug of hot cocoa as I asked him to, but he doesn’t resist the opportunity to quip, “So is your heart.”

It’s hard to be angry with someone so cute, but I brewed him some hot chocolate with the expectation that he would redeem my labor. “Just drink it, you idiot.”

Courfeyrac pretends to comply, all the way until the mug is resting on his lips, at which point he raises his eyebrows and insufferably asks, “Is it drugged?”

“I think you’re going to go bankrupt if you continue in the comedy business.” The subtle shade is perfect enough to earn a middle finger for its efforts, which only fuels a cacophony of muted laughter.

“Well, Combeferre, in case you didn’t notice, I’m already broke in my soul,” Courfeyrac slurs as a result of the residual drops of hot chocolate that remain in his mouth, as he places his mug where it was before so that he doesn’t have to port it while curling up into my side again.

“Yeah, maybe you should just go back to sleep.”

In the midst of a groan, Courfeyrac drowsily mumbles, “Fuck you,” and somehow everything seems golden.

His sarcastic personality is why I love him, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this gotdam ship is...,,,,too pure
> 
> I wanted to make it canon in this chapter but there's a thing called an outline so fuk this shit
> 
> ~Dakotaire


	15. squad up

****Grantaire's POV** **

It’s only three minutes past five o’clock when Jehan arrives with his man candy, as promised, busting through the door with the widest smile known to science while tightly clutching the arm of the young fellow beside him, a young fellow I’ve seen before, a young fellow whose locks reflect the darkness within him, a young fellow whose eyes scream of daring and of emeralds, a young man who haunts me: Montparnasse.

Jehan left his boyfriend’s identity up to surprise. He departed from the apartment beforehand, just so he could retrieve his new companion and no one would see, so I wouldn’t have had any clue that Montparnasse is the lucky man, and now I can hold no protests, as we are all gathering in Enjolras’ apartment where my riots will be passed off as typical of me, sarcastic and vain.

Maybe my riots are justified, as in no version of the universe would I expect my best friend to be dating the malicious villain who offered me drugs in exchange for a favor (a favor about whom I have yet to hear), especially since my best friend is the epitome of sunshine and happiness. He wouldn’t consort with people like him. It’s absolutely absurd, and with each passing second I grow more and more confused, except it’s not like I can express my concerns to anyone, because my concerns regard a drug deal that shouldn’t have happened, a drug deal that will probably ruin my life and all of my relationships, a drug deal that must remain closeted, so it’s up to me to figure things out.

I really want to be happy for Jehan for dating someone, because I feel that he would be the most perfect boyfriend in existence, with such a sweet demeanor that no one could refuse him, but even Jehan cannot influence Montparnasse into being anything less than a sordid criminal, and he could end up getting hurt through his efforts. I don’t want to see that, but I also don’t want to ruin his night. I can’t just walk up to him, tell him why his boyfriend is evil, have to explain how I know this, then walk away like nothing happened, probably leaving my roommate in tears. That’s a shitty thing to do. I can handle this on my own, just not tonight.

Montparnasse surveys the crowd of people with whom he will become acquainted tonight, passing over them quickly until his gaze flutters to me, at which point the connection between us conjures an aura of heaviness that only we can perceive, and it feels as though shadows are creeping up my back and everywhere around us. He recognizes me. He knows, but no one else does; they don’t even notice, and on one hand, I would like them to, so that they can help me dispose of this fool, but on the other hand, I can’t fabricate a proper reason as to why I’m “trashing my best friend’s happiness” besides the fact that I engaged in a drug deal with his boyfriend, so I’m forever trapped in this web of deceit and wishes for the truth, and Montparnasse is the spider who can fly free at any point in the evening. He will not be labeled a convict, at least not now, and I will be boiling with rage all the while. Drug dealers have a certain way of trapping their clients, after all.

“Everyone, this is Montparnasse,” Jehan announces, so proud that to an outsider it would seem as though _he_ were the one being introduced.

A blanket of replies flops across the room, muttering simple phrases like, “Hello, Montparnasse,” or, “Nice to meet you, Montparnasse,” but I stay silent, because if I were to say anything, it would most likely be too spiteful for Jehan to handle, and then all of my friends would be furious with me, because _no one_ hurts Jehan.

Jehan and Montparnasse scout out some seats at the table, and quickly immerse themselves into a conversation with Bahorel and Feuilly about how they met, when they decided to date, the usual relationship questions. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta initiate a conversation, too, and Enjolras discusses things with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, leaving me the only one without a place, but one of my friends notices.

“By the way, Grantaire,” Joly starts from his position beside me, “how are those painkillers working for your migraines?”

Montparnasse is immediately piqued, dropping the conversation in which he had previously been a part, to instead listen to ours and pretend to listen to the other one. I hate that he’s listening, and I hate that his stare is so harsh, and I hate _him_ , but there’s nothing I can do, and Joly was kind enough to give me the first dose of painkillers, kind enough to actually care about my wellbeing (unlike Montparnasse, whose focus is only trained on the money aspect of drug trade), so it’s my duty to answer the benevolent med student beside me, no matter how much it hurts me, or how much leverage it hands to Montparnasse.

Now, if we play our cards right, Montparnasse won’t feel compelled to blow my cover. He probably wouldn’t blow it right now, either, because he’s one of the two parties involved in the illicit act, but he might resign some of his acrimony towards me if he thinks that I bought painkillers from him just for migraines. He didn’t ask for my business with the medicine, just if I would comply with his terms, which I did, so for all he knows, the painkillers are for a legitimate physical problem, not because I’m so fucked up in the head that I think drugs are the only way out, the only reprieve, when I have a boyfriend who loves me and is devoted to my safety, when I have friends who will do just the same, when I have the ability to flush out my emotions through paintings that I actually regard as worth keeping. Other people don’t have that, but I do, and I want to squander it all on a temporary high. I owe my friends more. I owe Joly an answer.

“They’re fantastic,” I reply, forging a smile out of nothing. “Thank you so much for the medicine, Joly.” _And Montparnasse_.

Joly is satisfied enough with my answer, offering a brief smile as payment for my efforts, and returns to his conversation with his two partners, Bossuet and Musichetta, both of whom are extremely wonderful, but Musichetta would make a beautiful figure to paint. I find myself thinking about this often, in need of a muse who won’t deny me as Enjolras probably will. Musichetta is a generous soul, a devotee to her friends and boyfriends, and it is strikingly evident that she has a penchant for me.

Musichetta is the definition of confidence, in its most superb form. She radiates this confidence wherever she goes, and the dullness of it is forever exiled from her kingdom. But it is difficult not to be so confident when she is as magnificent as life itself, with features spun from marble and tinted bronze, as if armor from the bravest of soldiers, with eyes that speak of prophecy and of knowledge that extends farther than even her protracted limbs, with a mouth as full as the pallid moon that gushes only as much as she wants you to know. Her hair, whose consistency resembles a child’s absent activity of twisting locks around their finger until they notice a result, is a coil of melanoid snakes pressured often by an elastic band around the troop that camps near the scalp, a wild convent of freedom in youth. Her body, though in the mold of an hourglass, has no sense of time; it is eternally adolescent, not once dipping into the aesthetic of middle age. She is timelessly a princess of the Romani flower. She loves herself and all that she has become, as is clear with every step she takes. Thankfulness and ambition clutch both of her svelte hands, and she walks with them through existence without even a momentary separation. It is safe to say that she glows like the sun, like all of the stars, like a woman. And she is the perfect muse.

For a lack of better things to do at this dreadful meetings, I find myself staring at her, imagining how I would transcribe her features onto paper or onto a canvas, but I am soon interrupted.

Enjolras leans a few inches towards me in order to whisper in my ear without anyone hearing, very courteous of him, I must admit, but his words are not welcome nevertheless. “Grantaire, are you okay?”

Disconcerted with the chills my companion’s steamy breath crops up on my spine and neck, I rotate my shoulders all around to try and remove them from my sensory perception, but the discomfort still lingers. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Enjolras pauses for a few seconds, contemplating this, before he reiterates, “Grantaire, are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

I spin around to face him in a profile, indicating that I am completely serious, which should not be taken lightly because I’m almost never serious, and Enjolras recognizes this, recoiling in astonishment. “Enjolras, please. I assure you I’m fine.”

Partially hurt by this, but pretending as though he is not, Enjolras turns away and murmurs, “That’s all I want to know.”

Part of me feels ashamed for having damaged him like that, even if it was only a minor bruise, because we’ve experienced much worse, but it’s too late to take it back now, shove it down my throat again, so all that’s left to do is say I’m sorry, and hope that my best friend believes it.

“Enjolras, I apologize.”

Resembling a friendly smile meant to hide something, one half of Enjolras’ mouth quirks upward. “I’m fine, too.”

Sometimes I wonder why I can’t stop wrecking things.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this was supposed to be a fic that focuses mainly on Enjoltaire but okay I guess not (but there will be another solely Enjoltaire fanfic that succeeds this one; don't worry)
> 
> but I just love Montparnasse okay and grantaire doesn't (understandably) but I want everything to be okay and yet I have an outline so that's implausible and we're all dead
> 
> ~Dankota


	16. the gay olympics

****Combeferre's POV** **

True enough to his word, Courfeyrac shows up at my apartment while I’m studying, with the intentions of helping me. Courfeyrac doesn’t study, as he told me, yet he still manages passing grades, which means that he won’t be any use to me in the field of actually studying, but he’ll either teach me how he retains so much information without looking back at his papers, or he’ll take this opportunity to distract me from my schoolwork, therefore dooming me to a community college and a community college only, but time with Courfeyrac is time well spent. He has a way of making you glad that you blew off something important, because he makes _himself_ important.

I rise from my studying position, all the while realizing how tense I am when my head is bowed over tons of textbooks and worksheets, and snag the chance to stretch my body as I stalk towards the front door to invite Courfeyrac in.

Courfeyrac, as a person, is delighted to see me, a smile smacked onto his face with no motives to let go, but Courfeyrac, as a figure who is required to clothe himself by law, is dressed in one of the most hideous things I have ever seen — if Montparnasse were here, he would lose his shit — and I wish I could peel my eyes away, but I’m too fascinated with how Courfeyrac could’ve ever decided to wear this out in public to do so. His traditional black skinny jeans are acceptable, as that’s what our entire friend group wears most often, but his shirt is a profane billboard of fabric that showcases the French translation for “I eat ass” (je mange le cul), which would be nothing more than a t-shirt to people who don’t speak the language, but my favorite class in elementary and middle school was French, so I understand, and I also unfortunately have to live with the knowledge that my best friend owns a shirt broadcasting his sexual activities to whomever can understand it.

I can’t help but wonder if he wore this shirt to my house for a specific reason, but maybe I’m just overanalyzing things. Courfeyrac may or may not like me back, but I’m interpreting every movement of his as a sign, which is a tad obsessive, and will probably let me down in the end if he defies all evidence and sneaks off with a girl he met at another bar of his. I’m nevertheless glad to see him here, though, despite his atrocious clothing choices and his romantic ambiguity.

“I’ve come to help you study,” Courfeyrac announces, completely oblivious to how much I despise his shirt.

“You’re not good at studying.”

Taking this into consideration, Courfeyrac shrugs. “I’m good at annoying you, though, and even that is more fun than studying, so I think I should do it.”

I roll my eyes. “You must be a saint.” I pull away from the door, allowing Courfeyrac to close it on his way in, and return to my spot at the kitchen table amidst piles upon piles of work and scraps with which Courfeyrac will have a field day when he grows bored of studying, as I do all the time.

“Why don’t you study somewhere comfortable, like the couch?” Courfeyrac asks, genuinely confused as to why I don’t employ an actually sound idea. “You always seem to tense from sitting on a flat chair, just _staring_ at all of this academic garbage on the table.”

“First of all, it’s not garbage” — Courfeyrac rejects this by raising an eyebrow, so I point a finger at him as a tacit scolding — “and second of all, you have suggested a great idea, so we will now relocate to the couch. Help me carry my stuff, yeah?”

Courfeyrac is nothing short of pleased that I’ve welcomed his idea into my heart, so he enthusiastically totes some of my textbooks over to the living room, then plopping them down on the coffee table so that he can weightlessly slide onto the couch. However, he comes back to pick up one textbook, left open from when I was reading it right before Courfeyrac arrived, and imbibes some of the words as he waits for me to join him. Once I’m properly settled into the sofa, Courfeyrac declares that he shall read to me the assigned pages of the book, all the while scooting onto my lap for some fucking reason that only he could ever understand.

“The Roaring 20s,” Courfeyrac reads, and I assume he’s only pausing to allow the title to set in with the listener, but he’s actually pausing from disgust. “Are you serious, ‘Ferre?”

All I am is serious, so I prompt him to elaborate. “What do you mean?”

My friend rests the textbook upon his lap, which also transfers to my lap, as he’s sitting on me, and raises a hand at me, like he’s chopping air with it. “Look, the roaring 20s are pretty interesting and all, but in order to learn, you have to experience some of the traditions of the time period.”

Courfeyrac’s character is a wondrous aggregate of complexity, bursting with both good ideas and bad ideas, and he proposes them as if they were all brilliant, even when everyone else can see that they’re oftentimes terrible. This is one of those terrible ideas. Overall, it’s illogical. Pretending to live in the 20s doesn’t do anything except insinuate a mindset into myself, and the mindset of the 20s was that of racism and bigotry. It won’t help me learn the facts required to pass classes. That time period doesn’t exist anymore, so it’s trivial to replicate it.

“Does that include segregating my ancestors?” I deadpan.

Courfeyrac is struck by the realization that I’m correct, and that he’s made a mistake by not narrowing things down to only a few traditions, but before the time at which he thinks I’ll become enraged, he revises his offer. “Yeah, sorry about that, ‘Ferre. What I mean is that you need to live life on the edge!”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been telling myself,” I mutter.

“Yet you haven’t done anything about your obvious lack of ambition,” Courfeyrac quips, spiking me with the painful truth. “You’re transforming into a rusty sea urchin.”

“Well the problem is that I don’t know how to go about living life on the edge.”

“You have to stop examining things for every little detail, and just do what you feel nice doing in that exact moment.” Courfeyrac thinks for a moment so he can collect more advice, and he pops to life with another piece. “Become a hedonist — it’ll help.”

Confessing to the humor of Courfeyrac’s recommendation with a laugh, I counter, “I’m not becoming a hedonist, Courf.”

His eyebrow shifts. “Then how are you going live on the edge?”

I take my time pondering this, all the while Courfeyrac staring at me to detect any subtle facial signals and to hear my verdict exactly as and when it comes, but I only think of one thing, something I have been contemplating a lot before today, something about which I was ambivalent and scared, something I am facing now.

The hint of a smirk is the last thing Courfeyrac sees before my lips consume him, grasping at what I’ve wanted but never grabbed until now, a bed of fire and passion, a home I’ve made for myself.

Courfeyrac wastes no time attempting to recover, instead speeding full force into the kiss, like he, too, has been waiting for this for ages. His body is warm, I find, most likely as a side effect from all of the hormones building up in the room, portions of his angst diminishing and being replaced by nothing but love for me and for this connected action.

We make no room for thinking in this, only labeling ourselves as hedonists now that Courfeyrac has advised it, and it is solely our bodies who take the wheel. We feel what our bodies feel. We are dictated by our physicality, not by our apprehensions nor our emotions, and it’s fucking wonderful.

My hand, previously ensnared by his mass of hickory locks, now trails down his back, eliciting shivers deep inside of Courfeyrac’s spine, and stops to cup his ass for a firmer position while our mouths grind together in harmony with each other.

Courfeyrac, being the tease that he is, begins to rock into me, which includes jamming the lap of his jeans right up against my own, and swaying as if an ocean wave. He’s fueled by the minuscule groan I export, causing him to rock harder, and export a groan from himself, too. A buildup of tension swims through my jeans, and his as well.

Courfeyrac whimpers my name against the current of heat, the short syllable of the nickname he’s given me that has never sounded better than it does in this moment. He steadies himself by placing his palm against my chest, where he can easily notice my heartrate whirring at two hundred beats per minute, while my fingers lurk under the waistband of his skinnies, and search around within the space of a few centimeters for the elastic of his boxers. Both of us deriving pleasure from me toying with his hipbones, I don’t advance below that point, and we are perfectly content.

It’s all we ask from each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I love how this was the most sexually intense thing I've ever written and it wasn't even intense and I was still uncomfortable
> 
> I'm so weak
> 
> ~Dakoterrible


	17. the mafia awaits

****Montparnasse's POV** **

I’m jolted by a frantic knocking at my door, whose origins are unknown and whose origins are beginning to frighten me, as barely anyone shows up at my apartment randomly (or anytime at all) besides Jehan, and Jehan is curled up beside me without the faintest clue that there’s anyone rapping on the walls like they’re being chased by a murderer, so I honestly have no idea who it could be, or if I should even answer it at all.

But, with how loud they’re being, I don’t want them to wake up Jehan, both because he looks so peaceful in the garden of sleep, and because Jehan will get suspicious of my drug deals and my street affairs, and the poor kid doesn’t need to worry about any of that, so I rise from the couch, careful not to disturb my restful boyfriend, and see who’s disrupting my repose.

My only guess as to who it could be is Claquesous, the absolute bane of my fucking existence. All he does is pester me about secrets I may or may not possess, knowledge of which he has barely revealed, all because we were friends in middle school, and he knows that my scary persona on the streets is all a façade to protect myself from nasty people like him, to level up in my credibility and business. He hasn’t tested me yet, but I’ve assured him many times that I will not hesitate to destroy him if he does, and I suppose that’s why. But why the hell must he mess with me all the time? I’m trying to enjoy myself.

I swing open the door, expecting it to be that vile man aforementioned, but the actual outcome is even more shocking than the person who’s actually terrified of me. It’s the curly-haired ravenette who purchased painkillers from me not too long ago, on a mission for who knows what.

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Jehan gave me your address. He thinks we’re friends, but I could never be friends with a disgusting person like you, and I don’t know how he can, either.” Grantaire’s expression reeks of a spite whose intensity I have never before witnessed, but I’m not scared of someone who depends on me to live; I’m in control of him, no matter how evil that sounds.

I’m more frustrated with him than intimidated, and I indicate this by clicking my hands onto my hips, sighing. “Why are you here, Grantaire?”

“Jehan isn’t at the apartment, so I figured he’d be here. I’ve come to tell him the truth about you.” Ah, good old righteous Grantaire, doing the world many favors when no one asked him to.

My brows coil. “Why are you out to get me?”

“Because you’re unhealthy for my best friend.”

I glance behind me to glimpse a still sleeping Jehan, not an ounce of fear circulating his body. “Then why is he the happiest he’s ever been?”

Grantaire is silent, and it’s obvious that he’s been defeated, but he despises being defeated, and yet he has nothing to say that will unbury him from the trench we created together. The tools are in my hands, and I can either dig us deeper, or I can help us escape, but Grantaire is too paralyzed to decide, so I continue talking while I have the opportunity.

“I’ll give you some more painkillers to keep your mouth shut.” Grabbing my pouch of drugs (that Jehan hasn’t yet questioned, thankfully) from the table near the doorway, I begin to root through the contents to produce some more painkillers, until Grantaire halts me.

“I’m quitting, actually.”

My slender brow juts upward, and my arm slowly moves to return the bag to its original position. “Oh?”

It’s obvious that Grantaire has not considered the fact that withdrawal will strike him like a fucking sledgehammer, but why should I spare someone like him? I shouldn’t. If he accepts the painkillers, he’s fucked. If he refuses the painkillers, he’s fucked again. Grantaire is a mess of a person, no doubt, and now that he’s dug himself into this wreck, he figures the only place to go is down.

Grantaire nods nonchalantly. “I don’t want to be bound to the devil.”

His comments, ever so virulent, never fail to draw a chuckle out of me. “I think you’ll find that I’m not the malicious one. The last time we met, I gave you drugs in exchange for a favor, and this is it. My favor exists with the sole purpose of protecting someone I love. What are _you_ using your reward for?” I scoff, words tainted by acerbity. “If you love your boyfriend even a little bit, you wouldn’t squander your life on fucking drugs, of all things.”

Grantaire looks as though I just knocked the wind out of him with a battering ram, to the point where composure is a faint memory.

“Keep my secret. That’s all I ask.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire spits.

I smile as the door swings shut. “Goodbye, Grantaire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: there was a time when I really tried to make Grantaire likable but I really hate this thing so I don't even care anymore
> 
> Montparnasse is the queen tho
> 
> ~Dakoti


	18. sacrifice to the porcelain gods

****Grantaire's POV** **

Pride comes before the fall — that phrase is one ingrained into the minds of almost all humans, and I now understand why. If I hadn’t tried to be that righteous friend who always saves other people and scorns the villains, then I wouldn’t be hunched over the toilet at eleven o’clock at night as my insides attempt to free themselves of the prison in which they’ve resided for over twenty years. I wouldn’t be shaking as if it were December in the middle of March. I wouldn’t be thinking everything I see is out to get me because of my prior mistakes and the mistakes I’ll make in the future. I wouldn’t be able to see an eclipse in my eyes. I wouldn’t be so ashamed of my actions, of my impulsiveness, of who I am. I _would_ , however, be happy, even if that happiness is artificialized by downing ten painkillers per day.

I can deal with this on my own, and that’s what I plan on doing, until I hear the front door click, and see Enjolras wandering around the apartment through the half-open door. He’s whimsical, smiling and searching the place for me, and when he finally does find me, his smile is promptly wiped away, and he rushes towards the bathroom, where I lie defiled on the cold surface of the floor as I vomit up what little I had to eat today.

Enjolras kneels on the tile with me, scooting a hand over my back, and waving it around in circular motions, all the while slinging his brows together in confusion. “’Taire, what the hell happened?”

I look up at him, almost with the same characteristics as a child, and, in that typical groggy tone of someone who’s been expelling their liver, admit, “I don’t feel so good.”

“Do you need me to get anything for you?” Enjolras waits for my response patiently, which arrives within a reaction time that would point a doctor towards a serious ailment, and when he spots me shaking my head subtly, he stands up anyway. “Well you at least need water to replace the fluids you lost barfing up your lunch.”

I don’t inform him that I didn’t eat lunch, because that would make Enjolras more cautious of me, and by the end of the week I’ll probably be on some sort of low key suicide watch, something extremely limiting to a free range artist. I also don’t inform him that this isn’t some regular sickness, no. I believe it to be the inevitable withdrawal symptom set, the one I’ve experienced before with the different medium of alcohol. Enjolras has witnessed it, actually, as he was most of the reason why I decided to quit drinking, but I don’t think he’s aware that withdrawal was what it was, and he won’t figure it out this time, either.

Enjolras is back in the bathroom with bottled spring water in an instant. He offers the bottle to me but retracts it almost immediately in order to open the cap, because quite frankly I am in no shape to do so, with my vomit-stained hands and heavily perspiring skin.

I accept the gift graciously, lifting the item to my lips before slamming it down on the floor again to accommodate a sudden rush of puke flowing out of my mouth and into the toilet. I glance at Enjolras pathetically, who rebuts with a tilted smile. Once again I endeavor to take a swig of water, and this time it succeeds. I utilize the opportunity to swish it around my cheeks like mouthwash, an activity more disgusting than anything while it lasts, but afterwards I feel refreshed and glad that I did it, as most of the sourness of my stomach has been deposited into the porcelain bowl before me.

“T-thank you for being here, Enj,” I sputter through the residual sickness spoiling my mouth, an obstruction to the words I need to speak. Despite my qualms about his presence, I now realize that having someone with me is a treasure unlike no other. I can feel safe, protected, worthy of someone, because they ventured here to help me, and that’s just phenomenal.

Enjolras rubs my hunched back, nodding calmly. “I would be a terrible boyfriend if I didn’t take care of you.”

It’s somewhat heartbreaking to understand that Enjolras is so concerned with being the perfect boyfriend to me, when before we kissed, all we did was fight, and sometimes it would escalate so badly that we wouldn’t talk to each other for a few days unless we found an opportunity to throw insults wherever we could. We’re dating, I assume, because he seeks to help me, and that makes him perfect in itself. Meanwhile, I am the epitome of trash, a barnacle who latches onto whatever it can find, and therefore ruins the appeal of the entire thing solely with my existence. I don’t deserve Enjolras, not in the slightest.

“You’re so wonderful,” I sigh, all of the sudden enamored by the person with whom I am allowed to spend forever. “I would kiss you, but I smell and taste like vomit, and that’s oftentimes a turn off to someone you’re trying to impress.”

Enjolras giggles, a bittersweet melody to my aching ears. “I appreciate the sentiment, Grantaire.”

A sappy smile lacquers my visage. “I appreciate _you_ , Enjolras."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: these chapters just keep getting shorter and shorter bc I really want to finish this clusterfuck of bad decisions
> 
> but this ending is gonna fuk u up
> 
> ~Dakootie


	19. Joly is the real MVP I swear

****Grantaire's POV** **

“Thank you for seeing me, Joly,” I acknowledge, sealing the door as my friend steps through with an obvious countenance of hospitality and an eagerness to help.

One of Joly’s classic smiles tap dances across his lips, and he merrily replies, “Yeah, no problem. That’s what friends are for.”

I often feel that I don’t even deserve to call Joly a friend, after all he’s done for me and after all I haven’t done for him, but he’s persistent in his benevolence, and when he glimpses the slightest of negative nuances in my demeanor, he pounces on it immediately until it is no more, which just proves why a distressed cynic such as myself doesn’t deserve a bursting sunflower such as him.

Joly bounces to the kitchen table to pull out a chair for me first, then one for him. He sits in it backwards, as many high school boys do, and I trail behind him sluggishly. Wasting no time, Joly drives straight to the point. “So what’s up with you, Grantaire?”

I am the kind of person my friends regard as fearless within who I am, but ever since my fight with Enjolras, I have not been anywhere near the same person I was. I’ve been more nervous, which manifests into my vision being tilted into my lap, and my hands kneading each other as they are now, as I struggle to answer Joly’s question. “I think something’s seriously wrong with me.”

“I think the same thing all of the time, despite being a medical student with all of the symptom pamphlets on hand.”

“But I’ve actually seen symptoms,” I reiterate, actually glancing up from my hands this time. “Enjolras can vouch for that.”

Speaking of Enjolras, I was planning on having to tell him to scoot out of the apartment for a while, but I woke up this morning, and he was already gone, making this whole conversation with Joly very convenient. I don’t want him to hear the reason behind why I was coughing up my organs into the toilet last night, and he probably doesn’t want to hear it, either. Joly is calm when it comes to these kinds of things because of his medical training, whereas Enjolras would be flipping out on me with no sight of a lid to put back on, as I’m his best friend, and all of his endeavors have served one purpose: to help me improve myself in some way, and he has labored over this even when we weren’t dating. This means a lot to him — _I_ mean a lot to him — so to see it squandered on fucking painkillers would be a tragedy.

Joly is skeptical, but it’s his job as my friend to at least pretend that he believes me. “Okay, what do you think the symptoms are from?”

“Withdrawal.”

Joly severs his previously collected nature, leaning in as if he misheard me, and really hoping that he did because of how confusing I sounded just then. “Grantaire, you’ve been off of alcohol for a few months now. Please don’t tell me you’ve started drinking again.”

“No, I haven’t,” I assure my now frantic friend. Joly looks inordinately relieved…until I speak again. “I’m hooked on something else now.”

Joly’s face plummets to the ninth layer of hell, where all jubilance is only a distant memory. It’s disheartening to see such a lively soul so devoid of its liveliness, a kenopsia found only in one’s personality, and it’s especially disheartening to know that I’ve damaged one of my best friends like this, but I’d rather not damage him even more by dying because I couldn’t restrain myself, so a smidge of pain is necessary to spare him from a whole ton.

“And what would that be?”

I toy with my answer for a minute, capturing it only in my head, before releasing it ambivalently. “Painkillers.”

“Oh my god,” Joly gasps through hands now taped to his face, worry consuming his eyes more and more by each second. “I gave you those painkillers, and you’re…you’re…” That worry within him suddenly reaches the brim, and tumbles out in the form of saltwater and choppy sobs.

I should’ve predicted this outcome, but I didn’t. Yes, it was Joly who gave me the first scanty bottle of painkillers, but I associated them with Montparnasse, because painkillers and that vile man are both dangerous, whereas Joly is the poster boy for a life well spent on ebullience, so I didn’t want to affiliate him with a bad crowd. Through that, however, I forgot that Joly was the person who technically got me hooked on the drugs, and although it wasn’t his intention to do that (I know it isn’t, as well as I know the alphabet from kindergarten; friends don’t poison each other), it was his fault in a way. Well, maybe it wasn’t his fault, and maybe he wasn’t the trigger, but the presence of the painkillers — _his_ painkillers — in my pocket was his doing.

I promised myself before Joly arrived that I wouldn’t cry, not once, but everything I do is flimsy these days, and I soon find myself weathered by the hurricane of emotions crashing down upon me. “Joly, what do I do?” I plead through fits of tears, never feeling more helpless than I do now.

It is his duty to compose himself, as time should not be wasted on moments of weakness, but remnants of his tears still linger on his rosy cheeks. “Stay away from your painkillers, Grantaire. That’s the biggest step. Just stay away.”

I ponder this, while Joly allows himself a few seconds to sniffle.

“Don’t try to solve your problems with medication besides painkillers, either. Do these things, and you should be fine in a few days.” Joly rises, detecting that his work is done here, and stalks to the door. “It is fortunate that you aren’t experiencing a full-fledged addiction, so your recovery time should be faster and easier.”

“Joly,” I call out softly, and he stops to turn around. “Thank you.”

Joly smiles one of those fragile smiles, and nods towards me in response. “You’re going to survive this, Grantaire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Joly doesn't deserve this why
> 
> I'm so excited to finish this diddy dang book omggggg
> 
> ~Dakooky


	20. a clusterfuck of terrible decisions

****Grantaire's POV** **

Hectic knocking assails the sturdy wood of the door to the apartment, like a million bullets reverberating around both sides of the structure, jolting me from the numbness to which I’ve returned after quitting my use of those godforsaken painkillers, which should be for the better, right? I should be recovering just fine in order to revert back to my completely normal self, but my completely normal self isn’t jubilant; my completely normal self wants to die most of the time, so the painkillers may have been a justifiable choice, and I just need them back, but I can’t get them back because of my promise to Joly, who might be the one knocking on my door, so it’s my duty to answer him after all he’s done for me. He’s too kind to be left waiting in the ambivalence that I might be dead or I might be alive, like a Schrodinger’s cat situation.

It requires all of my power to lift myself from the couch and answer the door, but all throughout my journey to the front of the apartment, I tell myself that my efforts will pay off in the end, as the only people who come to this apartment are my friends, and my friends never fail to cheer me up when I’ve knocked myself into a hole again.

I am in need of cheering up now more than ever, and the person standing at my door is the perfect one to help me accomplish that — my golden boy, my radiant Apollo — but judging from the malicious expression on his marble face, I don’t think he’s here with those intentions.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Enjolras shouts, before I collect the time necessary to even processing this whole situation, a wrap of circumstances shot at me all of the sudden, and seemingly without an understandable cause.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Truthfully, I don’t, and I wish Enjolras would explain his case before yelling at me, because that only escalates into confounded rambling and an intricate web of miscommunication, and I’ve always detested our fights, so I’d rather not bring about another one whose origins I can’t even pinpoint this time.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the painkillers?”

I’m silent. How did he find out about those? How did he, the person from whom I endeavored the most to keep the secret, hear about this? Why are other people so eager about inadvertently devastating themselves?

Enjolras doesn’t wait for me to answer his question, instead penetrating me with the cold, hard truth that once again I cannot accept. “We, as boyfriends, are supposed to tell each other everything, and I have to find out about your addiction through _Joly_?”

 _Damn it_. I should’ve told Joly to keep his fucking mouth shut, but I didn’t, and now my secret has escaped. Who knows who else he told? Yeah, he was only trying to be a good friend by informing the others about my condition so that they could assist in fixing me, but he should’ve been smarter about Enjolras’ presence and his authoritative nature. Enjolras has been trying for months to fix me, to little avail because I don’t really give a shit about talking less when I always think my opinions are golden in that moment, so he is cognizant that my addiction couldn’t have been prevented, but it could perhaps be stopped.

“I didn’t want you to worry, so I kept it a secret, and now that you know, you look about as worried as a human can be.”

Enjolras stares at me in disbelief, in the condescending attitude typical of adults speaking to a child, the kind of expression I despise. “That’s because I care about you, Grantaire! You can’t hide everything, okay? Friends are meant to help you, to support you, not to be pushed away because you think your problems are only a burden to them. Your friends are stronger than you think.”

My brows cramp themselves to convey just how frustrated I am with someone whose stubbornness materializes out of his delusion that he’s always correct, which he’s not, so I’m willing to debate him as usual. “Have you ever considered that maybe _I’m_ stronger than _you_ think, Enjolras?”

“Yes, I have. I consider it very often,” Enjolras admits. Damn, he really knows how to counter me; I suppose this is why he’s the leader of the group, and I had always admired that, but now that quality is coming to bite me in the ass. “However, you can’t dig yourself out of a drug addiction on your own, because your brain is conflicted. On one hand, you want to be free of your substance dependence, but on the other hand, you think there’s a veritable reason why you chained yourself up in the first place. You can’t progress anywhere with that.”

“I’m trying to quit,” I explain, as if pleading him to take into account what I’m saying for once. “I don’t want the drugs anymore.”

“That’s the key word: _trying_. Quitting wouldn’t be so arduous if all of your body rejected the drugs, but all of your body _doesn’t_ reject the drugs. You still crave them, even if that craving manifests in only a minuscule portion of your brain.”

“I quit drinking because of you, Enjolras. I know how this shit works when you refuse it in the name of love.”

Enjolras drags his palm across his forehead, clearly stressed. “Grantaire, we’re done with this. We can talk in the morning.”

Maybe he’ll rethink his stance by then, and realize that I’m doing my fucking best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ughghghg the baes are back to fighting again
> 
> we're almost done here tho
> 
> ~Dakotable-flipper


	21. sometimes I wonder why I do this

****Jehan's POV** **

I’ve been spending more and more time at Montparnasse’s apartment, and less and less time at the apartment I actually own with Grantaire, but I don’t regret any of it. As long as I’m still chipping in with the rent for my original place, life progresses ever so wonderfully. I enjoy my days with Montparnasse, as every lover should, as every poet should, as every normal _person_ should, and I wouldn’t trade them for any material possession, not in a million years when immortality has still preserved our love.

I believe that I do, in fact, love Montparnasse for all that he is — the charming young man who, even if he didn’t attend college, is still a scholar where it matters. I also believe that he loves _me_ for all that _I_ am. It’s a mutual devotion towards each other, and it is through this that I feel totally safe. I hope he does, too, but I need not pray excessively that it is true, as he clearly indicates how he feels about me through every subtle nuance in his expression.

Our bond has been strengthened by the amount of time we’ve spent unapologetically together, and it’s become a regular occurrence to find myself in his apartment during the morning after staying the night, and this is one of those regular occurrences.

I had been awake for a while before I fled from the mattress, as Montparnasse’s arm had tugged me into him like a bear possessive of its cub, and though I valued that connection, I ached to wander the apartment, so I carefully maneuvered my way out of his tight clutch, and now I meander through the space with no apprehensions about Eponine emerging all of the sudden, catching me in the act of something as innocuous as ever, because she’s been rooming with Cosette for the week, for we creep her out too much — typical Eponine.

Though Eponine has been gone for some time, Montparnasse only tidied up the place a bit. Maybe Eponine’s presence urges him to fix his apartment, and now that she’s not here, he’s been slacking. Maybe I’m just a distraction to him, though I’m not complaining about that. The space is clean enough to traverse safely, and Montparnasse maintains the messes he makes in then current moments, but he hasn’t yet dealt with the rest, so there is the occasional obstruction in my way as I explore the living quarters.

Montparnasse’s apartment is nothing special. No one would think anything special of it, and would probably form a disfavored opinion if they were ever prompted to share what they thought of it, but it’s as interesting as an ancient civilization to me. It’s my personality that directs me to map all that I can, my poet identity, so I always have a good time promenading through uncharted territory.

I touch everything that I can, whether it’s to further examine it, or to simply glide my fingers along everything to perceive the texture of the things that lie in the apartment. I find a variety of patterns and consistencies in such a limited space, which reminds me that life is so diverse and so beautiful and so perfect for a writer like me, and my heart swells with the joy of knowing that all of this is reality.

I trek all around the living spaces of the apartment (the kitchen, the living room, and the area that contains the dining table), and discover so many new things. However, it is when I circle back to the kitchen that I locate the gem of the lot: a leather book with sheets of notebook paper clipped in its binding.

Everyone will teach you that it’s immoral to snoop through people’s belongings, especially when their belongings look as though they could be diaries or journals, but Montparnasse and I are close enough to share lots of things, and I’m not really thinking straight, as is common for me in the morning, so I could leap off of a bridge at five o’clock in the morning thinking it’s the best idea in the world, and I might as well be leaping off of a bridge with what I’m going to do.

At least checking my surroundings to make sure that Eponine hasn’t arrived early and that Montparnasse is still asleep, I proceed with my illicit activities regarding this intriguing book left on the kitchen counter. I open the front cover to find the first page blank, a smart move for the overly cautious, and the second page is where it begins.

The page is filled from top to bottom meticulously with names, phone numbers, and something even more sinister than the prior two: drug orders. The three columns are divided evenly, as a businessman would do it, but a businessman would not sink to the level of dolling out drugs to random people. A businessman would also not have such a plethora of drugs seen on the sheets; I’m actually astounded at how many types are marked in this book. Confusion sweeps over me, drugs me as Montparnasse might, and I suddenly can’t make sense of anything. This seems like a mafia situation to me, and I’m frankly quite terrified now, but I look onwards nevertheless. I’m always searching for something fresh, I suppose, but that’s now come to fuck me.

Every page is ordered the same way, with the same three columns, with the same format, so by now I’m just scouring the book for a deviation in the code, but the only thing I find is myself on the last page of the journal, amazed by how orderly Montparnasse keeps his syndicate.

Montparnasse — the youthful, humorous, kind Montparnasse — is not the kind of person to tie himself up in drug affairs. I would’ve never suspected, even as a joke, that he could be a drug dealer, so the news strikes me with a pain I have never before experienced. Why would he do this? What are his motives? Will I ever know? Part of me wants to keep my mouth closed, and that part would’ve entirely devoured me, were it not for the name I glimpse in the most recent spot of the notebook: Grantaire, marked down for painkillers.

Though I had previously thought myself to be safe from being caught, I now detect the soft padding of Montparnasse’s feet on the hardwood floor of the hallway as he makes his way to the kitchen, having just woken up. He is still groggy from recent sleep, but he’s awake enough to recognize this book I’m holding, awake enough to panic. “Jehan, what are you doing?”

I turn to him frankly. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

Montparnasse’s focus is solely on the book, not on me, which indicates that he’s more worried about protecting his secret than he is about sparing me from this anguish, making this a terrible sign for our relationship or whatever the hell is going on. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Well I did, and your intentions to hide this from me don’t make this situation any better.”

“Please, calm down,” Montparnasse pleads, but he’s already worked me up, even if it was inadvertent. I am beyond frustrated with him, to the point where I’ve run cold and eerily calm.

“Not until you explain why you have a book full of names, phone numbers, and the supposed drugs these contacts buy from you, and why my best friend’s name is in the list.” I’m not really asking much, so this should be far from arduous for Montparnasse, yet he’s stumbling over himself like he’s love struck and at a loss for words.

Montparnasse captures the longest of breaths to attempt to rewire his system out of its current jitteriness, and part of that process is explaining things earnestly, so he tries his luck with that. “When people correspond with me about sales, I always take down their information to later contact them. That’s what a good business man does.”

“Why the hell are you selling drugs, and how did Grantaire get caught up in this?”

“How else would I afford to pay for my necessities?” Montparnasse exclaims, as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world. “I simply pounced on a good opportunity when your friend came round to my part of town and bought painkillers from me.”

The audacity in this one! I love him — I really do, and this argument may be an example of how protective I am of him — but he talks as though he doesn’t trust me, as though I’m a threat to him! I need to drill it into his brain that this isn’t okay, and countering his pliant statements is going to aid me. “So is he addicted to you just as much as he’s addicted to this goddamn painkillers?”

“He only bought from me once,” my boyfriend murmurs to the floor, ashamed.

I roll my eyes, throw my hands up in the air in nothing but candid exasperation. “Oh, as if that clears the whole situation.”

He looks up from the ground, and mutters, “I didn’t say it did.”

I’m not finished with him, however. “Montparnasse, I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me about this. In case you haven’t noticed, selling drugs is _illegal_.” My fright and concern has molded tears into my eyes, and I don’t even wipe them away. The damage needs to be seen in order for Montparnasse to conceive the gravity of these circumstances.

A flicker of remorse snaps at Montparnasse’s face, but it vanishes before I can be clear of what I witnessed, as he isn’t backing down. “My reputation is a beacon of power on the streets. People don’t fuck with me. They won’t report me.”

I am somewhat cognizant that Montparnasse arguing with me is probably for the better, because most of his claims are meant to soothe my worries, but it will take me a while to jump out of this pandemonium, and back into security, so as for now, everything he says is an amplifier of my distress.

“And what if the police catch you by chance?” I debate.

“No one visits my hangout just to stroll around.”

“You’re being careless by saying that,” I sigh, more disappointed with Montparnasse than angry now.

“I’ve been nothing less than _cautious_ , actually,” he contradicts with a new heaviness to his tone.

“Yet you’re the reason why other people can’t even conceptualize the word ‘cautious’. You strip them of their consciousness by willingly handing them these drugs, and now you’ve doomed my roommate.”

And once again, he is knocked back to square one, his voice drained of its power, and given back its muted qualities. “I told you that he quit using them.”

“I nevertheless need to check on him, okay? We’ll resolve this later.” It is in this moment that I endeavor to flush my body of the toxic ideas, storing them away for the time being.

“Jehan, I’m sorry.” It’s a genuine statement, but it’s a genuine statement I cannot deal with right now.

“I’m not accepting any more comments about this matter until I see if Grantaire is still fucking alive.”

Montparnasse doesn’t argue with me. He’s done enough already, and he’s keen enough to understand it. He knows I need a break, and I’m thankful for at least that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: me ruining everything with only one diddy dang chapter left lmao why
> 
> everything's b u r n i n g
> 
> ~Darkota


	22. I live for this cruelty

****Grantaire's POV** **

My lover will live through a misconception doomed to never be cleared up. That is all I know as I walk the streets of Paris at night with only one mission in mind: to die, and to disregard all promises I may have made as a side effect, and though I feel somewhat ashamed for cursing someone I love, it is necessary in order to avoid more monumental things in the future.

The bottle of painkillers I never disposed of rests tensely in my hand, ready to be employed in stopping my heart sooner or later, and it is through them that I feel completely secure. They will give me what I have spent years grasping for, what I have never received until now, what my friends would hate me for accepting, but it must be done.

What my friends don’t realize is that this action will spare them a lot of pain. Before Enjolras pitied me enough to trick himself into thinking he loves me, all we would do is fight, and that was the entire dynamic of our relationship. I have kept Joly awake on countless occasions because he was worrying about me more than he was worrying about his own life. I have unwittingly sparked many table conversations behind my back about my health. I have thrown my friends into such turmoil, into such distress, and it’s time that this routine dies along with me.

I can only walk nearer to the Ferris wheel from here, a destination so fitting for my demise because of its prominent role in my genesis, and I guess I’ve always been one for the sort of tradition that stops you in your tracks at the realization that none of this was a coincidence, and rather that I planned my murder scene at the place where my murder first started rolling down an eager slope of snow. I almost muster a laugh.

I finally reach my desired location, the Ferris wheel where it all began. A slight pause holds the world for a moment, a crack in my power, a hesitation that I quickly dismiss with a shiver, before procuring my bottle of pills.

I breathe in the sound of the cap clicking against the body of the container, how it’s been untangled from the plastic in no time, and once the seal is out of the way, I dump out all of the medicine onto my palm, tossing the bottle to the ground.

Glancing up to see my apartment building behind the mass of other structures, I offer one last smile to it as a parting gift, and tip the pills back into my throat.

And I’ve never been happier.

Meanwhile, in the shadowy tresses of night, a pensive soul awakes.

Alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm finally done ya yeet
> 
> hope you enjoyed idk if you did leave a comment if you want..thanks, kids
> 
> It's amazing that I actually finished this book in less than a week wow
> 
> also if you want to say hi or something, you can find me at @barricaderats on tumblr
> 
> ~Dakota


End file.
